I didn’t start the week applying to become prime minister of Australia, but that is how I ended it. See, I’ve been job hunting. I need something with regular hours on regular days, where I can spend at least half of my time sitting down due to cancer fatigue, that pays above-award wage, and with enough employees to allow me to bake morning tea once a week.

I am yet to find anything suitable and have been rejected enough times that I cried twice by Wednesday. And so, I set my sights higher. Although I am perfectly capable of performing regular administration duties, my main talent is satire writing. Unfortunately, there are zero current jobs for this on Seek. So, I gave myself 48 hours off serious applications and had some fun.

First, I applied to NASA, citing my middle-aged invisibility as a strength in space exploration, but asked to only work 9am to 3pm. It replied, directed me to its applications page, and wished me luck.

I then applied to be the head of sensible biscuit decisions at Arnott’s following its decision to remove Lattice bickies from the shelf in 2021. In my letter, I explained that Monte Carlos need to be fuller and come in a larger pack, and suggested a range of Tim Tams labelled as “home brand spinach” would fly off the shelves. I requested remote work from Orange and a generous biscuit allowance, and told them to feel free to contact the Country Women’s Association for references. I did, however, request that should they seek references, they disregard anything the Orange Show Society has to say about me, because it calls itself a society but operates with the reckless abandon of scoundrels. This stems from my lack of placement in the 2025 caramel slice category, and the fact that the winner ignored all size regulations and still received a blue ribbon, in my opinion, unfairly. Arnott’s has forwarded my email on to the relevant “departments”.

I contacted Dinky Diaries about its abandonment of women in their forties, and the possibility of a new diary for menopausal women featuring oestrogen application reminders, a spring-loaded mammogram reminder that shoots out when you are late, and a dedicated section for documenting rage. I asked to be appointed the “National Director of Organisational Decline and Middle-Aged Customer Retention”. Its reply was promising, but we are now in the process of negotiating my 10-colour pen with extra purple ink requirements.

I then applied to be appointed to the Supreme Court as the “Regional Advocate for Baking Justice”. It is yet to reply.

I asked SPC to appoint me as the Regional Director of Agricultural Disappointment and Canned Fruit Appreciation, following my discovering that moving to the country and eating a lot of peaches involves a six-year journey of planting a peach tree, then a different peach tree so they could cross-pollinate, then six years of growth only to pick, cook, and can them improperly so they all went mouldy, then eating bought peaches from a can. SPC replied, expressing sorrow for my adventures and stating that the Regional Director of Agricultural Disappointment and Canned Fruit Appreciation is not a position that currently exists. It also told me to keep writing, because I have a true gift.

I have contacted the Bathurst Mineral and Fossil Museum seeking a position as photographer for the T-Rex head, to prevent middle-aged women from suffering three chins in selfies. I also suggested, because I don’t really want to drive to Bathurst daily, that it move the museum to the current planetarium site. My only demands for this prestigious role were minimum wage, an overnight museum relocation, and the opportunity to spend one night alone in the museum, just to be sure nothing comes alive. I offered to bring my own sleeping bag; however, I am yet to hear back.

I then requested that the band Jebediah re-release its coming-of-age hit ‘Leaving Home’, which I loved in 1997, for my own 17-year-old daughter, and asked the band to possibly come to Orange for a one-off show* titled “Miss 17, please at least leave the house occasionally”.

Lastly, after realising that I am talented and yet somehow unemployable, I asked Albo if I could have his job. You see, 18 years of parenting, eight years of writing, and facing the challenges of regional living make me exactly the kind of person who should be making economic and social decisions for our country. His office replied and forwarded my email to the Department of Employment. Fingers crossed!

*Jebediah’s management only skim-read my email and thought I was serious, and is willing to come to the Ex-Services Club for $30,000. If you are interested in donating to my GoFundMe to help fund this, that would be great.