Week 6. Letters written: 40. Replies: 4. Interviews: 1.

Signed on again this week. My documents had been flagged so I had to have another interview. It seems that I can only pursue my job search in my chosen profession for 13 weeks before they decide I'm never going to make it. After that I've got to go to a job review workshop. This is a brave new world where new opportunities are assessed. All your details are fed into a computer which tells you where you might try for work. The prospect of shelf-filling looms again. Anyway, I've got six weeks before I have to confront this option.

I had a phone call from a recruitment consultant. I had sent him my CV in response to an advert I had seen for a position as a production manager. He thanked me for my reply but thought it a bit short on information. My idiot's guide to getting a job after the age of 45 stressed that you should put down only information that's relevant to the job you're applying for, but my brevity didn't impress him. I typed another two pages of guff which didn't really add to the sum of human knowledge on the subject. Since then I have heard no more.

This house husband thing is all very well but ironing really is the pits. T-shirts are OK, but women's clothes are impossible. There's far too much material and pleats everywhere. Does anyone understand what all those little symbols mean on the label? As for sheets - well. You need eight- foot long arms and a huge ironing board.

Another possible ad in this week's paper. The factory next to my previous place of employment is advertising for a planning/production manager. I'm not sure whether being known to them is an advantage or not. You never really know how people view you. I send off my CV and hope they are impressed with the succinctness of it. Another phone call from a management recruiter who has tracked me down after a lot of work. I am impressed by the trouble he has gone to. Maybe I won't be stacking shelves after all, maybe my career as a manager isn't over. John Emburey is back spinning for England, so why not me cranking up my rusty action to look after production schedules again?

The author lives in Hereford. He worked as a factory production manager before being made redundant. His diary appears every Thursday.