The fat lady has warmed up her vocal chords nicely.
It is my first lunch-hour in my new employment and I slip out of the office to make my last call to the DWP. I am confirming that I have started work and wish to sign-off. It's a momentous occasion and would have been improved with a glass of chilled champers in my hand, but satisfying enough without.
Dean* is a nice enough lad, but is struggling with the concept that I was not in receipt of benefits. "So, you're on JSA?" he starts and I head him off at the pass. No, no JSA. Not for some time now. "Oh, OK. Council Tax Benefit, then?" Nope, not on that either, never have been. "Housing Benefit?" he asks hopefully. No, I confirm, I have never been in recipt of that either. Pause. "Oh, right then, Tax Credits." It's a statement. I wonder for a moment if I am such a rarity, in receipt of none of the generous benefits available, but I know I'm not, as all other connections in my circle are equally bereft of state assistance.
"No, I'm afraid not," I say and Dean seems disappointed. Perhaps he gets his job satisfaction by calculating how much money the state saves every time someone on full-blown benefits finds employment. I'm afraid I'm rather thin meat for him. "I'll tell you what I have been on," I volunteer and Dean brightens momentarily. I sense his anticipation. "Bugger all. That's what I've been on. A big, fat zero." For a split second I know he's checking his list of benefits for the one labelled 'Bugger All' but he quickly realises I'm pulling his leg. "Oh, OK then." he concedes and I confirm that my call is nothing to do with ending state handouts and everything to do with DWP bureaucracy. I want this chapter firmly brought to a close so I can go home and shred every last piece of paper that reminds me of this surreal - and wholly unenjoyable - relationship.
After all the momentous episodes with the Job Centre, its' staff and maddening, de-humanising systems, this final contact is somewhat of an anti-climax. Like a Roman Candle that promises much but fizzles out with a whimper, rather than a bang. But I'm relieved that it's so. I am emotionally shattered. I have been in this abusive relationship for the last 8-plus months and need time and space for healing of mind, body and spirit. Pulling on my grown-up work outfit and driving to work this morning, I sensed the start of the healing process, but it will take some time.
I end the call and take a deep breath. The world has a whole new perspective right now and I feel vaguely familiar feelings - dormant for some time - stirring within. Self-respect, independence, confidence. It's a start.
So, with apologies to NASA, may I just say, this is Dole Queue Virgin signing-off. Over and out.
*Name has been changed
Sunday 1 August 2010
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Madame Butterfly
These are exciting times.
This morning I attended an interview for a part-time marketing role that is both interesting and fun, in an attractive local company. They actually liked me. No, truly. To the point that they offered me the job. I am beyond excited. Obviously, full-time money would be better, but it's enough that I can sign-off, as the salary easily replaces the mortgage insurance (and some).
Resisting the urge to burst through the JC doors, yelling 'So long, suckers!' I err on the side of caution. After all, I don't have the contract in my hand yet. How foolish would I feel coming back shame-faced in a fortnight, hoping they will have forgotten?
I take my seat in the waiting area. And wait. And wait. It's stifling again, so I fight the tedium by people watching. My good fortune has made me talkative, so I strike up a conversation with a large lady sitting next to me. She walks with the aid of a stick and has been out of work for over two years. Apparently, her disability means any potential employer has to jump through all sorts of 'elf & safety hoops, which must make her difficult to place.
After she moves off I spend a few minutes listening to Adorable Emma attempting to facilitate a three-way conversation between herself, a claimant and an interpreter. The woman, who sounds Spanish, has a toddler in a pushchair next to her and the girl is screaming and fractious. I know how she feels.
I really am feeling very sociable and find myself chatting to a young man with terrible teeth. He got fired from his last cleaning job, but is rather vague as to why. I have my suspicions, but don't voice them. Just then, a glorious sight. The exotic Oriental comes in and sits down and I goggle at today's ensemble. A huge straw hat, maxi skirt, black lace socks and silver sparkly plimsoles. All clashing marvellously with the sequin bag from last week. Honestly, she looks like she pulled everything from a dressing-up box. What a vision. I absolutely love her.
Sean gets the short straw today and I sit down opposite him and let him enter the double-figure apps from the last fortnight into the ever-ravenous system. I can't wait any longer and tell him all about the job offer, but say it's just an offer right now and I still need them to confirm my unemployed status right up to start date, for insurance purposes. Yes, he can do that, but can I come in and sign-off on the day I start working? I hesitate, in case it's a trick question. 'Err, no, because I'll be working.' Ah. Pause, whilst Sean processes this. I'm full of bright ideas, so I suggest I 'phone in on the day I start work, just to confirm. This, evidently, comes a poor second to absenting myself from my new employment on Day One, but I smile in what I hope is an engaging manner and Sean agrees to this compromise.
I glance around at all the familiar faces and say that I'll miss everyone and I had been hoping to make it to the staff Christmas do. Sean doesn't seem to do irony and says he would love to take me to the staff Christmas party. He's a sweet boy.
If all goes well, this should be the penultimate blog entry. I still have my 'exit' 'phone call to navigate, but I should not be coming back here anytime soon. I feel like I've had more than my fair share, to be honest.
As the Farmer said to Babe, 'That'll do, Pig. That'll do'.
This morning I attended an interview for a part-time marketing role that is both interesting and fun, in an attractive local company. They actually liked me. No, truly. To the point that they offered me the job. I am beyond excited. Obviously, full-time money would be better, but it's enough that I can sign-off, as the salary easily replaces the mortgage insurance (and some).
Resisting the urge to burst through the JC doors, yelling 'So long, suckers!' I err on the side of caution. After all, I don't have the contract in my hand yet. How foolish would I feel coming back shame-faced in a fortnight, hoping they will have forgotten?
I take my seat in the waiting area. And wait. And wait. It's stifling again, so I fight the tedium by people watching. My good fortune has made me talkative, so I strike up a conversation with a large lady sitting next to me. She walks with the aid of a stick and has been out of work for over two years. Apparently, her disability means any potential employer has to jump through all sorts of 'elf & safety hoops, which must make her difficult to place.
After she moves off I spend a few minutes listening to Adorable Emma attempting to facilitate a three-way conversation between herself, a claimant and an interpreter. The woman, who sounds Spanish, has a toddler in a pushchair next to her and the girl is screaming and fractious. I know how she feels.
I really am feeling very sociable and find myself chatting to a young man with terrible teeth. He got fired from his last cleaning job, but is rather vague as to why. I have my suspicions, but don't voice them. Just then, a glorious sight. The exotic Oriental comes in and sits down and I goggle at today's ensemble. A huge straw hat, maxi skirt, black lace socks and silver sparkly plimsoles. All clashing marvellously with the sequin bag from last week. Honestly, she looks like she pulled everything from a dressing-up box. What a vision. I absolutely love her.
Sean gets the short straw today and I sit down opposite him and let him enter the double-figure apps from the last fortnight into the ever-ravenous system. I can't wait any longer and tell him all about the job offer, but say it's just an offer right now and I still need them to confirm my unemployed status right up to start date, for insurance purposes. Yes, he can do that, but can I come in and sign-off on the day I start working? I hesitate, in case it's a trick question. 'Err, no, because I'll be working.' Ah. Pause, whilst Sean processes this. I'm full of bright ideas, so I suggest I 'phone in on the day I start work, just to confirm. This, evidently, comes a poor second to absenting myself from my new employment on Day One, but I smile in what I hope is an engaging manner and Sean agrees to this compromise.
I glance around at all the familiar faces and say that I'll miss everyone and I had been hoping to make it to the staff Christmas do. Sean doesn't seem to do irony and says he would love to take me to the staff Christmas party. He's a sweet boy.
If all goes well, this should be the penultimate blog entry. I still have my 'exit' 'phone call to navigate, but I should not be coming back here anytime soon. I feel like I've had more than my fair share, to be honest.
As the Farmer said to Babe, 'That'll do, Pig. That'll do'.
Monday 19 July 2010
Clash of the Titans
God, I feel weary.
Another Monday, another pointless JC trek. I have a stash of recent job apps under my arm and just want this over and done with. I see Zsa Zsa on the end desk - she's become a regular downstairs recently - apart from that, there's Sean, plus one other lady (mature-ish) that I don't recognise.
The waiting area is stifling and packed with the usual motley selection of idlers. As I'm leafing through the job section of the local press, an extraordinary creature enters and takes a seat. Flamboyant. Yes, that's the word. She is of Eastern origin and teeters in on the most fabulous killer heels, and jeans she must have poured herself into. Her bag is all sequins and she sparkles like an Oriental jewel. I catch myself gaping and as I tear my gaze away, I hear my name called.
It's the lady I don't recognise and seated next to her is a young lad doing a reasonable impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. A trainee, riding gunshot. Bless. Sandra* is all friendliness, but this is superficial and I detect a steel core not too far under the surface. Toby* is sitting next to her, looking bright and well scrubbed.
It's the usual 'How's it going?' conversation and in answer I just push the applications across the desk for her to enter onto the system. Not quite in double figures but still several times more than is required by my Jobseeker's Agreement. I tell her about the unpaid work I am doing and she stiffens, a little like a hound dog that catches a scent of pheasant. It transpires that if I'm working I need to fill in a wodge of bureaucratic nonsense. 'Why?' I ask. Because I do. Apparently, the DWP needs to be told, so they can investigate why.
Why what? Why I'm working, or why I'm not getting paid? 'Both' is the answer and I feel a distinct stand-off forming. Now, I'm a reasonable person (ask anyone) but this hacks me off. Here I am, being given an opportunity for some quality work-experience (all within the 16 hours permitted) and I take exception to the DWP feeling like they have to raise another raft of paperwork, which includes going and bothering the employer that has given me this opportunity.
Patiently - after all, there are trainees listening - I explain the motives behind working-for-nowt. I tick the benefits off my fingers and finish by explaining that all the jobsites and job coaches recommend this as an excellent idea. Sandra flashes a steely smile and says, yes, she knows, but the DWP needs to know.
Why? (This is fast becoming a circular argument, but I am digging my heels in). This is a great line - 'Because the DWP needs to know what you're up to. After all, those 10 hours you work, you could be job searching instead.' I take a long and very deliberate look at the pile of job apps in front of us and throw down a silent challenge.
Sandra pushes the form across to me (multiple pages of bull) and I glance through it. This is intrusive and I say so. I don't see why a government department should be as intimate with me as my gynaecologist. At least he warms his instruments first.
We are at an impasse. I put the form down, she pushes it back towards me and suggests I fill it in now. That would be a no.
Toby is agog. Perched on the edge of his seat, I don't think he's seen anything like this all day and his eyes swivel back and forth as if he was watching on Centre Court, SW19.
I point out that I am not receiving JSA any more, so am at a loss as to why the DWP would want to know about FREE work I am doing, in an effort to improve my opportunities. This takes the wind out of Sandra's sails, but only momentarily, and she recovers swiftly to state - firmly - that JSA or no JSA the DWP needs to know what I'm up to.
It's an Orwellian moment. I take the form and put it in my bag, with no intention of filling the damn thing in. It's a trick I've learned dealing with my darling Mum - now in the advanced stages of Dementia. Distract and diffuse. I haven't said I won't fill it in.
I just know I won't.
*Names have been changed
Another Monday, another pointless JC trek. I have a stash of recent job apps under my arm and just want this over and done with. I see Zsa Zsa on the end desk - she's become a regular downstairs recently - apart from that, there's Sean, plus one other lady (mature-ish) that I don't recognise.
The waiting area is stifling and packed with the usual motley selection of idlers. As I'm leafing through the job section of the local press, an extraordinary creature enters and takes a seat. Flamboyant. Yes, that's the word. She is of Eastern origin and teeters in on the most fabulous killer heels, and jeans she must have poured herself into. Her bag is all sequins and she sparkles like an Oriental jewel. I catch myself gaping and as I tear my gaze away, I hear my name called.
It's the lady I don't recognise and seated next to her is a young lad doing a reasonable impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. A trainee, riding gunshot. Bless. Sandra* is all friendliness, but this is superficial and I detect a steel core not too far under the surface. Toby* is sitting next to her, looking bright and well scrubbed.
It's the usual 'How's it going?' conversation and in answer I just push the applications across the desk for her to enter onto the system. Not quite in double figures but still several times more than is required by my Jobseeker's Agreement. I tell her about the unpaid work I am doing and she stiffens, a little like a hound dog that catches a scent of pheasant. It transpires that if I'm working I need to fill in a wodge of bureaucratic nonsense. 'Why?' I ask. Because I do. Apparently, the DWP needs to be told, so they can investigate why.
Why what? Why I'm working, or why I'm not getting paid? 'Both' is the answer and I feel a distinct stand-off forming. Now, I'm a reasonable person (ask anyone) but this hacks me off. Here I am, being given an opportunity for some quality work-experience (all within the 16 hours permitted) and I take exception to the DWP feeling like they have to raise another raft of paperwork, which includes going and bothering the employer that has given me this opportunity.
Patiently - after all, there are trainees listening - I explain the motives behind working-for-nowt. I tick the benefits off my fingers and finish by explaining that all the jobsites and job coaches recommend this as an excellent idea. Sandra flashes a steely smile and says, yes, she knows, but the DWP needs to know.
Why? (This is fast becoming a circular argument, but I am digging my heels in). This is a great line - 'Because the DWP needs to know what you're up to. After all, those 10 hours you work, you could be job searching instead.' I take a long and very deliberate look at the pile of job apps in front of us and throw down a silent challenge.
Sandra pushes the form across to me (multiple pages of bull) and I glance through it. This is intrusive and I say so. I don't see why a government department should be as intimate with me as my gynaecologist. At least he warms his instruments first.
We are at an impasse. I put the form down, she pushes it back towards me and suggests I fill it in now. That would be a no.
Toby is agog. Perched on the edge of his seat, I don't think he's seen anything like this all day and his eyes swivel back and forth as if he was watching on Centre Court, SW19.
I point out that I am not receiving JSA any more, so am at a loss as to why the DWP would want to know about FREE work I am doing, in an effort to improve my opportunities. This takes the wind out of Sandra's sails, but only momentarily, and she recovers swiftly to state - firmly - that JSA or no JSA the DWP needs to know what I'm up to.
It's an Orwellian moment. I take the form and put it in my bag, with no intention of filling the damn thing in. It's a trick I've learned dealing with my darling Mum - now in the advanced stages of Dementia. Distract and diffuse. I haven't said I won't fill it in.
I just know I won't.
*Names have been changed
Sunday 4 July 2010
Apathy
Monday. It must be signing-on day again. I have total sympathy with Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
Putting my positive head on and grasping this week's clutch of applications, I skip up the steps and almost collide with Man Mountain - the last person I expected to see. What happened to Le Mans, I ask? Apparently he's been and come back and on his return, discovered that some wretch had stolen his beloved motorbike. His face looks thunderous and he's muttering darkly about retribution. I hope whoever stole it can run fast.
Taking my seat in the holding pen, I see Kate through a doorway and she waves and calls out hello. We exchange pleasantries across the floor and I feel like an honorary staff member. Perhaps I'll get an invite the the Christmas Party? I bet that's a riot. What's the betting party poppers, balloons et al would be banned on 'elf & safety grounds? Or simply banned because they were fun? I don't think the JC is meant to be a fun-emporium, it's meant to be a destination of shame where hopeless wastrels like me come to be chastised for our idleness.
There's only two on again this week but I've not long sat down before Sean calls my name. I'm feeling bullish today and when he asks me what I've been doing, I tell him. I tell him that the advice I was given two weeks before is wrong and at total variance to the DWP website and JobCentrePlus telephone service. I tell him that I am working - true, only for a dozen hours per week and not paid, but working none-the-less and LOVING it! I get to engage grown-ups in business conversations and I love it, love it, love it. A good dose of cold-calling has also helped with my confidence when it comes to my job applications and I have become quite stalker-ish about following them up. I am pig-sick of sloppy, un-professional and downright rude recruiters and I tell him so.
Sean then asks how I got on with Linda, the lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities (allegedly) and says he saw me come in for my appointment with her, then saw me leave about 5 minutes later. He thought it was odd and I confirmed that Linda was in fact not-the-lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities and had told me so in pretty terse terms. "Yes, she can be a bit abrupt", was his only comment. That was it. Next subject.
I fantasise about this scenario happening in the private sector. Can you imagine a customer receiving such non-service and no-one else within the organisation stepping in to take up the case and re-refer it to the appropriate place? (OK, OK, I know Virgin Media, BT, Talk-Talk and in fact any other company that outsources its' 'customer support' to far-flung call centres easily fall into the category of stupendously bad, but let me make my point).
Sean clearly feels this is not within his remit, so we move on and I really can't be bothered to fight any more. The solution to my jobless-ness is within my own hands and will have zip to do with the DWP. I ask Sean to sign my ABI1 form and all of a sudden I feel like I'm in a loveless marriage, an arrangement of convenience. We're going through the motions and the attraction has long expired.
Putting my positive head on and grasping this week's clutch of applications, I skip up the steps and almost collide with Man Mountain - the last person I expected to see. What happened to Le Mans, I ask? Apparently he's been and come back and on his return, discovered that some wretch had stolen his beloved motorbike. His face looks thunderous and he's muttering darkly about retribution. I hope whoever stole it can run fast.
Taking my seat in the holding pen, I see Kate through a doorway and she waves and calls out hello. We exchange pleasantries across the floor and I feel like an honorary staff member. Perhaps I'll get an invite the the Christmas Party? I bet that's a riot. What's the betting party poppers, balloons et al would be banned on 'elf & safety grounds? Or simply banned because they were fun? I don't think the JC is meant to be a fun-emporium, it's meant to be a destination of shame where hopeless wastrels like me come to be chastised for our idleness.
There's only two on again this week but I've not long sat down before Sean calls my name. I'm feeling bullish today and when he asks me what I've been doing, I tell him. I tell him that the advice I was given two weeks before is wrong and at total variance to the DWP website and JobCentrePlus telephone service. I tell him that I am working - true, only for a dozen hours per week and not paid, but working none-the-less and LOVING it! I get to engage grown-ups in business conversations and I love it, love it, love it. A good dose of cold-calling has also helped with my confidence when it comes to my job applications and I have become quite stalker-ish about following them up. I am pig-sick of sloppy, un-professional and downright rude recruiters and I tell him so.
Sean then asks how I got on with Linda, the lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities (allegedly) and says he saw me come in for my appointment with her, then saw me leave about 5 minutes later. He thought it was odd and I confirmed that Linda was in fact not-the-lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities and had told me so in pretty terse terms. "Yes, she can be a bit abrupt", was his only comment. That was it. Next subject.
I fantasise about this scenario happening in the private sector. Can you imagine a customer receiving such non-service and no-one else within the organisation stepping in to take up the case and re-refer it to the appropriate place? (OK, OK, I know Virgin Media, BT, Talk-Talk and in fact any other company that outsources its' 'customer support' to far-flung call centres easily fall into the category of stupendously bad, but let me make my point).
Sean clearly feels this is not within his remit, so we move on and I really can't be bothered to fight any more. The solution to my jobless-ness is within my own hands and will have zip to do with the DWP. I ask Sean to sign my ABI1 form and all of a sudden I feel like I'm in a loveless marriage, an arrangement of convenience. We're going through the motions and the attraction has long expired.
Thursday 10 June 2010
180 Degrees
I don't know Jenna, but if she wants to be my new best friend, that's fine with me.
Jenna is on the other end of the 0845 number that leads directly to JobCentrePlus. It's 8am and I'm determined to get in early. A late night 'phone call from a mate (the PRINCE2 mate) leads me to believe the JC have got it wrong. About me not being able to work for a limited number of hours, that is. Surely not? I mean, this is a massive deal, considering the number of people who go through that JC, all, surely, asking the same question.
I ask Jenna what the limitations are. "Sixteen hours" she replies promptly. Yes, but doing what, I ask? The question stumps her. "Well, anything you like". So, I press on. I'm not limited to charity work then? "No, of course not". And it's OK for me to take advantage of this unpaid training opportunity? Jenna hesitates, but only because she thinks it's a trick question. If she were permitted, I'm sure she would come out with "Duuur"?
There's a pause, then Jenna says, "But your JC should be able to tell you this". I explain to the dear, wonderful, girl that my JC is saying the absolute opposite and there was me about to sign-off and lose my precious ABI1 form. Jenna is at a loss and advises me to check out the DWP website, which does, indeed, confirm the 16-hours-do-what-you-like-get-paid-or-unpaid rule. (Of course, any earnings will be deducted off JSA, but seeing as I don't get that anyway, and mine is unpaid work, it's a double-moot point).
I put the 'phone down with a sense of supreme relief. Thank goodness. I can proceed with this opportunity, continue to job-hunt on the side and not get evicted. Trebles all round!
It's not till later that I get mad. Fuming that essential government policy can somehow be so badly misinterpreted by those in a position of trust, advising the desperate. I'm not sure how I will tackle this at my next signing-on. One thing's for sure, I will tackle it.
Perhaps I will get them to 'phone the fragrant Jenna. My new best friend.
Jenna is on the other end of the 0845 number that leads directly to JobCentrePlus. It's 8am and I'm determined to get in early. A late night 'phone call from a mate (the PRINCE2 mate) leads me to believe the JC have got it wrong. About me not being able to work for a limited number of hours, that is. Surely not? I mean, this is a massive deal, considering the number of people who go through that JC, all, surely, asking the same question.
I ask Jenna what the limitations are. "Sixteen hours" she replies promptly. Yes, but doing what, I ask? The question stumps her. "Well, anything you like". So, I press on. I'm not limited to charity work then? "No, of course not". And it's OK for me to take advantage of this unpaid training opportunity? Jenna hesitates, but only because she thinks it's a trick question. If she were permitted, I'm sure she would come out with "Duuur"?
There's a pause, then Jenna says, "But your JC should be able to tell you this". I explain to the dear, wonderful, girl that my JC is saying the absolute opposite and there was me about to sign-off and lose my precious ABI1 form. Jenna is at a loss and advises me to check out the DWP website, which does, indeed, confirm the 16-hours-do-what-you-like-get-paid-or-unpaid rule. (Of course, any earnings will be deducted off JSA, but seeing as I don't get that anyway, and mine is unpaid work, it's a double-moot point).
I put the 'phone down with a sense of supreme relief. Thank goodness. I can proceed with this opportunity, continue to job-hunt on the side and not get evicted. Trebles all round!
It's not till later that I get mad. Fuming that essential government policy can somehow be so badly misinterpreted by those in a position of trust, advising the desperate. I'm not sure how I will tackle this at my next signing-on. One thing's for sure, I will tackle it.
Perhaps I will get them to 'phone the fragrant Jenna. My new best friend.
Mission Impossible
Groundhog Day.
Up the stairs again, this time The Bejewelled One directs me to the Mysterious First Floor. I like it up here. It's a much nicer view and you're away from the proles.
Linda welcomes me and I am brimming with optimistic anticipation. I have all the information about the certified course I am interested in and can't wait to see what they can help me with.
"I really don't know why they've made an appointment for you to see me today. I can't tell you about training, it's not what we do". As an opener, it's not encouraging, but I can't believe Sean can have got it so wrong. Perhaps she doesn't understand? I explain the proposal but she has a definite look about her that brooks no argument. Pushing the info across the desk, I explain that someone I know has had PRINCE2 sponsorship, so surely this is on a par?
With a reluctant sigh, Linda rises to consult God. During her abscence I begin to deflate. Two, consecutive days of total negativity drains even the most boisterous spirit and all of a sudden I've had enough. I feel like the hate-hate relationship I have had with the JC is in its' glorious death throes and I can't wait to be out of its' toxic clutches.
Linda is back and I know it's a No before she even sits down. Perhaps, if I had a letter from this company, stating that this certification was an absolute must, backed up with a guaranteed job at the end.......well, perhaps. But, otherwise, it's a firm No.
She pushes a business card across the table to me. "You could talk to these people", she suggests. It's a ghastly, government-sponsored organisation that helps with CVs, interview techniques etc., and they meet in the local library. No. No. No. Not for the first time I realise that the DWP just doesn't get it.
I take my leave. Prolonging this abortive appointment is pointless, and I find myself outside the JC doors within approximately 7 minutes of entering them.
Thank goodness I got free parking.
Up the stairs again, this time The Bejewelled One directs me to the Mysterious First Floor. I like it up here. It's a much nicer view and you're away from the proles.
Linda welcomes me and I am brimming with optimistic anticipation. I have all the information about the certified course I am interested in and can't wait to see what they can help me with.
"I really don't know why they've made an appointment for you to see me today. I can't tell you about training, it's not what we do". As an opener, it's not encouraging, but I can't believe Sean can have got it so wrong. Perhaps she doesn't understand? I explain the proposal but she has a definite look about her that brooks no argument. Pushing the info across the desk, I explain that someone I know has had PRINCE2 sponsorship, so surely this is on a par?
With a reluctant sigh, Linda rises to consult God. During her abscence I begin to deflate. Two, consecutive days of total negativity drains even the most boisterous spirit and all of a sudden I've had enough. I feel like the hate-hate relationship I have had with the JC is in its' glorious death throes and I can't wait to be out of its' toxic clutches.
Linda is back and I know it's a No before she even sits down. Perhaps, if I had a letter from this company, stating that this certification was an absolute must, backed up with a guaranteed job at the end.......well, perhaps. But, otherwise, it's a firm No.
She pushes a business card across the table to me. "You could talk to these people", she suggests. It's a ghastly, government-sponsored organisation that helps with CVs, interview techniques etc., and they meet in the local library. No. No. No. Not for the first time I realise that the DWP just doesn't get it.
I take my leave. Prolonging this abortive appointment is pointless, and I find myself outside the JC doors within approximately 7 minutes of entering them.
Thank goodness I got free parking.
What would Stelios say?
Having managed to skive last week's additional appointment, I skip up the stairs to the JC, greeting Man Mountain and Mr In-Tray with a breezy good morning.
The waiting area is quite empty, apart from a couple of stoic souls, who, (judging by the way they all keep looking at their watches) have been kept waiting for some time. It's unclear why this should be. I count the desks.
Desk One, empty.
Desk Two, Adorable Emma, but not seeing punters, she's answering the 'phone. Gosh, this is a first.
Desk Three, a youngish lad. Solid build, looks eager.
Desk Four, double-take. It's Crumpled Brenda, in black again. I expect this will now be her Monday outfit for the next six months.
Desk Five, empty.
Desk Six, can't see, but there's no mistaking the delicious corruption of those vowels. That has to be Zsa Zsa, obviously down for emergency cover again.
Whilst waiting, I tune into Adorable Emma's conversation. Well, you can't help yourself, really. She seems to be advising someone who has a legitimate reason for having to rearrange their signing-on. It sounds like they have secured an interview, something you think would result in champagne corks popping and congratulations all round. Apparently not, as this inteferes with the bureaucratic function of the DWP and is Not On. "You will have to come in for a 'Sit & Wait' appointment" says Emma. As opposed to a Sit & Wait & Wait & Wait appointment like the rest of us then? I'll have one of those, please.
The eager young man calls my name and I find myself sitting across from Sean*, who, I establish, has only been working here 9 weeks and LOVES it! Loves it, loves it. It's great to meet someone so happy in their role. He came from banking, apparently. Well, sombody has to.
I tell Sean that I have the opportunity to work (unpaid) with a local company, who will train me in their sector, give me valuable skills and, if I work out, there could well be a job for me at the end of it. I will keep within the 16 hours per week allowed, so I just need to inform him, I think? Pause. Long pause. "Oh, I don't know about that", he says, and rises to consult Zsa Zsa. After a few minutes I notice Mr In-Tray is also in the fray. A 3-way conversation about me, but not with me. Nice.
Sean comes back. "No, you can't do that, it has to be for a registered charity, not a commercial company". Really? That's a blow. Well, what would happen if I took this offer up? They would sign me off, apparently. No more NI contributions, no more ABI1 form. Bugger all.
What about making this a Work Trial then? I know the DWP sponsors those? Sean, again, shuffles off to consult Mr In-Tray, who, this time, comes across to the desk to deliver the negative news. No they won't.
So, Mr In-Tray, let me re-cap here -
No, I can't do unpaid work.
No, if I do it I won't get my NI contribution paid.
No, if I do it I won't get my ABI1 form signed.
No, they won't make this a Work Trial.
I ask him what happened to the spirit of enterprise that made this country great? How on earth did all those Dragons get into their Den? He has the grace to concede that The System does not exactly encourage endeavour and initiative. As if The System was a beast of autonomous, uncontrollable nature, as opposed to a man-made disaster.
Swallowing my disappointment I move onto the accredited training available for this new role I have been looking at. I pass over all the details and ask if the DWP would part-fund this investment in my future? (I only ask as I know of someone who has had their very expensive PRINCE2 certification co-funded, so it's worth a punt). At last, Sean feels like he can be positive and says that although he can't advise, he'll make an appointment with Linda* on the Mysterious First Floor, as she's the one who can tell me everything about what's available. Hurrah! I leave with an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Yes, I know two visits in two days will take stamina, but for the goal of funded training, I can do this.
Bidding a cheery adieu to Man Mountain, I tell him he'll see me again tomorrow. Oh, no he won't. He's off for the next 6 weeks, working as a steward on various sports fixtures, here and on the Continent.
I wonder if I'll still be a visitor here, when he returns?
*Names have been changed
The waiting area is quite empty, apart from a couple of stoic souls, who, (judging by the way they all keep looking at their watches) have been kept waiting for some time. It's unclear why this should be. I count the desks.
Desk One, empty.
Desk Two, Adorable Emma, but not seeing punters, she's answering the 'phone. Gosh, this is a first.
Desk Three, a youngish lad. Solid build, looks eager.
Desk Four, double-take. It's Crumpled Brenda, in black again. I expect this will now be her Monday outfit for the next six months.
Desk Five, empty.
Desk Six, can't see, but there's no mistaking the delicious corruption of those vowels. That has to be Zsa Zsa, obviously down for emergency cover again.
Whilst waiting, I tune into Adorable Emma's conversation. Well, you can't help yourself, really. She seems to be advising someone who has a legitimate reason for having to rearrange their signing-on. It sounds like they have secured an interview, something you think would result in champagne corks popping and congratulations all round. Apparently not, as this inteferes with the bureaucratic function of the DWP and is Not On. "You will have to come in for a 'Sit & Wait' appointment" says Emma. As opposed to a Sit & Wait & Wait & Wait appointment like the rest of us then? I'll have one of those, please.
The eager young man calls my name and I find myself sitting across from Sean*, who, I establish, has only been working here 9 weeks and LOVES it! Loves it, loves it. It's great to meet someone so happy in their role. He came from banking, apparently. Well, sombody has to.
I tell Sean that I have the opportunity to work (unpaid) with a local company, who will train me in their sector, give me valuable skills and, if I work out, there could well be a job for me at the end of it. I will keep within the 16 hours per week allowed, so I just need to inform him, I think? Pause. Long pause. "Oh, I don't know about that", he says, and rises to consult Zsa Zsa. After a few minutes I notice Mr In-Tray is also in the fray. A 3-way conversation about me, but not with me. Nice.
Sean comes back. "No, you can't do that, it has to be for a registered charity, not a commercial company". Really? That's a blow. Well, what would happen if I took this offer up? They would sign me off, apparently. No more NI contributions, no more ABI1 form. Bugger all.
What about making this a Work Trial then? I know the DWP sponsors those? Sean, again, shuffles off to consult Mr In-Tray, who, this time, comes across to the desk to deliver the negative news. No they won't.
So, Mr In-Tray, let me re-cap here -
No, I can't do unpaid work.
No, if I do it I won't get my NI contribution paid.
No, if I do it I won't get my ABI1 form signed.
No, they won't make this a Work Trial.
I ask him what happened to the spirit of enterprise that made this country great? How on earth did all those Dragons get into their Den? He has the grace to concede that The System does not exactly encourage endeavour and initiative. As if The System was a beast of autonomous, uncontrollable nature, as opposed to a man-made disaster.
Swallowing my disappointment I move onto the accredited training available for this new role I have been looking at. I pass over all the details and ask if the DWP would part-fund this investment in my future? (I only ask as I know of someone who has had their very expensive PRINCE2 certification co-funded, so it's worth a punt). At last, Sean feels like he can be positive and says that although he can't advise, he'll make an appointment with Linda* on the Mysterious First Floor, as she's the one who can tell me everything about what's available. Hurrah! I leave with an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Yes, I know two visits in two days will take stamina, but for the goal of funded training, I can do this.
Bidding a cheery adieu to Man Mountain, I tell him he'll see me again tomorrow. Oh, no he won't. He's off for the next 6 weeks, working as a steward on various sports fixtures, here and on the Continent.
I wonder if I'll still be a visitor here, when he returns?
*Names have been changed
Monday 31 May 2010
Déjà vu
God, I am so bored with this.
It's week 2 of the six-week challenge and I'm so, so bored with coming back here, with nothing much new to say and no real point in me saying it, anyway. However, the sun is shining, so I greet Man Mountain with a cheery smile. He is ruing time spent in the sun over the weekend, as he is nursing a rather pink pate. Apparently, he works as an occasional steward at sports fixtures and went on duty without sufficient lotion slapped on his forehead. Too late to suggest he should have worn a cap, so I keep my lips buttoned and move into the waiting area.
Heaving. Again. Where does everybody come from? All the desks are manned and busy and I think I spy a new consultant, so squint to see better. It's not a new consultant. It's Brenda. But (and regular readers will know, this is a jaw-dropping moment) she is NOT wearing her Monday outfit. Fot the first time in 6 months! Perhaps it has finally worn out? It's possible.
On one hand I am disappointed. With all the fabulous summer colours available, she could have gone mad with cerise or teal. But, no. It's black. Gok would say "No girlfriend, not with your colouring!" but I decide that charity is the order of the day and credit should be given for stepping outside of her comfort zone. Or should that be crumple zone?
Kate is rushing about, as usual, but eventually calls my name to follow her into her office, and without bothering to lower her voice too much, adds "Come in for your weekly rant". Said with a smile.
So, across the desk again. But at least it's with my most favourite JC person, which makes it much more bearable. "OK, off you go", says Kate and I reel off the latest - vacancies where I was being considered, but have now been rejected. New opportunities that I am currently being considered for. Speculative applications made. Networking meetings I have attended. Latest hot tips from the Job Seeker's Underground. Oh, and I've co-founded a Job Club.
I pause to consider what I've left out and Kate suddenly realises she's been listening so attentively, she hasn't entered a single detail on the ghastly system. (The system is like a baby bird, it needs constant feeding). So, a quick re-cap of the highlights and we're done. Just one tiny thing more. My next (additional) appointment is supposed to be on the coming Monday, which is a Bank Holiday. So I ask Kate if she will make a date for the Tuesday instead? "Forget it", she says, "it's a Bank Holiday". I know, but won't the DWP Monster realise I have 'missed' a week and cut me off at the pass?
"Forget it", she repeats. "Have a day off. On me".
It's week 2 of the six-week challenge and I'm so, so bored with coming back here, with nothing much new to say and no real point in me saying it, anyway. However, the sun is shining, so I greet Man Mountain with a cheery smile. He is ruing time spent in the sun over the weekend, as he is nursing a rather pink pate. Apparently, he works as an occasional steward at sports fixtures and went on duty without sufficient lotion slapped on his forehead. Too late to suggest he should have worn a cap, so I keep my lips buttoned and move into the waiting area.
Heaving. Again. Where does everybody come from? All the desks are manned and busy and I think I spy a new consultant, so squint to see better. It's not a new consultant. It's Brenda. But (and regular readers will know, this is a jaw-dropping moment) she is NOT wearing her Monday outfit. Fot the first time in 6 months! Perhaps it has finally worn out? It's possible.
On one hand I am disappointed. With all the fabulous summer colours available, she could have gone mad with cerise or teal. But, no. It's black. Gok would say "No girlfriend, not with your colouring!" but I decide that charity is the order of the day and credit should be given for stepping outside of her comfort zone. Or should that be crumple zone?
Kate is rushing about, as usual, but eventually calls my name to follow her into her office, and without bothering to lower her voice too much, adds "Come in for your weekly rant". Said with a smile.
So, across the desk again. But at least it's with my most favourite JC person, which makes it much more bearable. "OK, off you go", says Kate and I reel off the latest - vacancies where I was being considered, but have now been rejected. New opportunities that I am currently being considered for. Speculative applications made. Networking meetings I have attended. Latest hot tips from the Job Seeker's Underground. Oh, and I've co-founded a Job Club.
I pause to consider what I've left out and Kate suddenly realises she's been listening so attentively, she hasn't entered a single detail on the ghastly system. (The system is like a baby bird, it needs constant feeding). So, a quick re-cap of the highlights and we're done. Just one tiny thing more. My next (additional) appointment is supposed to be on the coming Monday, which is a Bank Holiday. So I ask Kate if she will make a date for the Tuesday instead? "Forget it", she says, "it's a Bank Holiday". I know, but won't the DWP Monster realise I have 'missed' a week and cut me off at the pass?
"Forget it", she repeats. "Have a day off. On me".
Friday 21 May 2010
You Couldn't Make It Up
I'm feeling slightly irritated this morning.
It's the first of my additional JC appointments, the 20-minute consultation to see 'how they can help me more'. That's all very welcome, but I have a full morning scheduled, including conversations with recruiters, networking and other constructive activities planned. However, the DWP has decreed, and you never know, there might be something I can glean from this meeting.
The Bejewelled One ticks me off the list and directs me to the usual waiting area. I know I am seeing Kate (thank you, thank you) at 11am so am not fazed by the heaving mass of applicants waiting to sign-on.
I wait. And wait. Then I wait some more. Brenda lollops past and I see she is wearing her Monday outfit. I so want to be her personal shopper. I could be her Gok.
I see Kate bustling about, and long after my appointment time, I see her taking 'standard' customers into her office, which puzzles me. This is a new (much heralded) system of dedicated appointments. I note she is studiously avoiding my eye. This is worrying. Finally, over 30 minutes late, she reluctantly calls my name.
We settle in her office and the reason for her discomfort becomes apparent. "I know you've been waiting over half-an-hour, Miss X, but I really have nothing to say to you". I exercise what us sales pros call the 'silence technique', encouraging Kate to elaborate. She is acutely embarrassed. "This is the first day for this new system," she explains "and I don't know what I can say to you. These additional appointments are assumed to be for claimants who either don't want to work, or are incapable of knowing how to go about it." I would like a polaroid of my face. Right now, please.
Kate goes on to confirm that I know more about getting myself back into work than either she, or the DWP at large could know. I suspect this is true, as I have been sharing my ideas and experiences with Kate (who is clearly an intelligent and compassionate woman) and she absorbs all the information like a sponge, as it adds to her own understanding of the dark world of the redundant exec.
Our eyes meet and I sense the agony in hers. Taking a deep breath, I say that I expect that the wretched system demands some information to be fed into it about our meeting, so what can I tell her that will satisfy the DWP that she has diligently advised me today? Her relief is huge and she says to just chat away at what I've been doing, so I just gabble on, relating my latest triumphs and catastrophes. This turns into quite a rant about unprofessional recruiters and being treated like vermin and poor Kate is visibly shocked. I assure her that not only am I not exaggerating, but my experience has been confirmed many times over by my fellow unemployed execs.
After a 10 minute monologue, I realise that I am spent. Kate smiles sympathetically and says that as I must attend these pointless appointments with her, I should consider them free Reiki sessions. I concede that most therapists charge £35 a pop and blasting off at her helped me to purge of some of the frustrations of the last week, so she may have a point. We share a conspiratorial smile.
Parting friends, Kate agrees that I no longer have to fill in the hideously patronising 'What I Did Today' form, which is a massive relief and not for the first time, I could kiss her.
I sail out of the door, mentally calculating how much serious job-hunting time I have squandered on today's charade. I give up. I always hated party games anyway. The only one I ever won was 'Dead Bears' and there's not a lot of call for that in the local sits vac.
It's the first of my additional JC appointments, the 20-minute consultation to see 'how they can help me more'. That's all very welcome, but I have a full morning scheduled, including conversations with recruiters, networking and other constructive activities planned. However, the DWP has decreed, and you never know, there might be something I can glean from this meeting.
The Bejewelled One ticks me off the list and directs me to the usual waiting area. I know I am seeing Kate (thank you, thank you) at 11am so am not fazed by the heaving mass of applicants waiting to sign-on.
I wait. And wait. Then I wait some more. Brenda lollops past and I see she is wearing her Monday outfit. I so want to be her personal shopper. I could be her Gok.
I see Kate bustling about, and long after my appointment time, I see her taking 'standard' customers into her office, which puzzles me. This is a new (much heralded) system of dedicated appointments. I note she is studiously avoiding my eye. This is worrying. Finally, over 30 minutes late, she reluctantly calls my name.
We settle in her office and the reason for her discomfort becomes apparent. "I know you've been waiting over half-an-hour, Miss X, but I really have nothing to say to you". I exercise what us sales pros call the 'silence technique', encouraging Kate to elaborate. She is acutely embarrassed. "This is the first day for this new system," she explains "and I don't know what I can say to you. These additional appointments are assumed to be for claimants who either don't want to work, or are incapable of knowing how to go about it." I would like a polaroid of my face. Right now, please.
Kate goes on to confirm that I know more about getting myself back into work than either she, or the DWP at large could know. I suspect this is true, as I have been sharing my ideas and experiences with Kate (who is clearly an intelligent and compassionate woman) and she absorbs all the information like a sponge, as it adds to her own understanding of the dark world of the redundant exec.
Our eyes meet and I sense the agony in hers. Taking a deep breath, I say that I expect that the wretched system demands some information to be fed into it about our meeting, so what can I tell her that will satisfy the DWP that she has diligently advised me today? Her relief is huge and she says to just chat away at what I've been doing, so I just gabble on, relating my latest triumphs and catastrophes. This turns into quite a rant about unprofessional recruiters and being treated like vermin and poor Kate is visibly shocked. I assure her that not only am I not exaggerating, but my experience has been confirmed many times over by my fellow unemployed execs.
After a 10 minute monologue, I realise that I am spent. Kate smiles sympathetically and says that as I must attend these pointless appointments with her, I should consider them free Reiki sessions. I concede that most therapists charge £35 a pop and blasting off at her helped me to purge of some of the frustrations of the last week, so she may have a point. We share a conspiratorial smile.
Parting friends, Kate agrees that I no longer have to fill in the hideously patronising 'What I Did Today' form, which is a massive relief and not for the first time, I could kiss her.
I sail out of the door, mentally calculating how much serious job-hunting time I have squandered on today's charade. I give up. I always hated party games anyway. The only one I ever won was 'Dead Bears' and there's not a lot of call for that in the local sits vac.
Sunday 16 May 2010
Stage 3
Armed with my updated breeze block, I take the steps to the JC two-at-a-time and push open the (surprise!) broken entrance door. The Bejewelled One and Mr In-Tray have a brief power-struggle, racing to find my details and check me off first (clearly some testosterone issues going on there).
The Mysterious First Floor used to hold a mystical fascination for me, but today it just represents the abject waste of the last 6 months. Feeling a little reflective, I take my seat and wait for Alison. She and I did not exactly hit it off last time and I decide I don't want any hassle today. Whilst psyching myself into a positive mindset, I see Man Mountain blunder towards me. He is clearly security for the Mysterious First Floor today and checks me off his customer list. "Oh, Stage 3!" he blurts out, looking surprised. "I hadn't realised you'd been coming here that long. Doesn't time fly?" I give him what I consider a restrained look, under the circumstances, and reply that it feels like a very long time indeed, thanks very much.
It seems that Alison has also decided she doesn't want any hassle today, and my warm greeting is reciprocated. We settle down to review the JS Agreement which now becomes a bit of a moot point, as my JS Allowance has just terminated. Six months and you're out, so-to-speak.
I do continue to get my NI contributions paid though, and they will still sign the precious ABI1 form, that golden ticket to the mortgage insurance being paid. The downside is I still need to come in and continue to sign-on. OK, add that to the pile of crap I am currently dealing with and it seems small beer.
As we're at 6 months, I have to add another job title I am prepared to consider. This is DWP bureaucracy at it's best. I have to choose from a list of job types, and we can't use derivatives of the main ones already selected. This doesn't leave much. Her cursor runs up and down the list and hovers over the 'Ts'. "Taxi Driver" I say, spotting it in the list. Well, why not? It's as likely as anything else.
Then the whammy. As this is my 6-month review, I now need to make additional visits to the JC over the next 6 weeks, so that I attend every week. Why, I ask? Alison does a good job of keeping a straight face whilst she confirms this is to see if there's anything else they can do to help me. So, this in-between interview will be more than just signing-on? Yes, I am assured, this is a proper 20-minute interview with looking up jobs and, well, anything else. Excellent.
I ask about Work Trials, something I heard about via networking. Alison looks evasive, then confirms that's really only for warehouse staff. OK, where's the broom? No, seriously, I can sweep-up as well as anyone, and after a shift on the warehouse floor, the MD will spy my talents, sweep me up to the boardroom and hand me a key to the executive bathroom. Well, you never know.
After a moments thought, Alison agrees to pop upstairs to see God and see if there are any partnership agreements in place with local employers that would better suit me. Whilst I am waiting, Man Mountain lumbers past and I stop him to ask about the Stage 3 reference. He looks sheepish and admits he shouldn't have told me. I say that in oncological terms, I am in a pretty dire situation, and can he tell me if there's a Stage 5? Or am I terminal? He declines to answer.
Alison returns saying that if I can find a local company that will enter into a DWP Work Trial, then they'll do the paperwork. It really is self-serve all the way.
I'm also worth £1,000 to any company that takes me on, due to the Recruitment Subsidy scheme. Alison hands me a sheaf of photocopied leaflets for me to enclose with any CVs or applications I send off. Over my rapidly cooling body, I think. Bad enough having to go through the application mincer, without flashing a big red flag that shouts 'Loser'.
I ask Alison about Stages 4 onwards. She looks grim and confirms that I really, really, really don't want to be around for the 18 month review. No, you're right, I don't. We part amicably and I fervently hope I never see her again.
Man Mountain is back downstairs with Mr In-Tray. I call a cheery goodbye and the big man says, mock serious, that he doesn't want me back here for the 9-months review. I couldn't agree more and concede that I am a total disgrace and can't believe I have got this far in the hall of shame. Man Mountain throws back his head and belly laughs (and he's got the equipment for it) and even Mr In-Tray manages a watery smile.
It's a small victory.
The Mysterious First Floor used to hold a mystical fascination for me, but today it just represents the abject waste of the last 6 months. Feeling a little reflective, I take my seat and wait for Alison. She and I did not exactly hit it off last time and I decide I don't want any hassle today. Whilst psyching myself into a positive mindset, I see Man Mountain blunder towards me. He is clearly security for the Mysterious First Floor today and checks me off his customer list. "Oh, Stage 3!" he blurts out, looking surprised. "I hadn't realised you'd been coming here that long. Doesn't time fly?" I give him what I consider a restrained look, under the circumstances, and reply that it feels like a very long time indeed, thanks very much.
It seems that Alison has also decided she doesn't want any hassle today, and my warm greeting is reciprocated. We settle down to review the JS Agreement which now becomes a bit of a moot point, as my JS Allowance has just terminated. Six months and you're out, so-to-speak.
I do continue to get my NI contributions paid though, and they will still sign the precious ABI1 form, that golden ticket to the mortgage insurance being paid. The downside is I still need to come in and continue to sign-on. OK, add that to the pile of crap I am currently dealing with and it seems small beer.
As we're at 6 months, I have to add another job title I am prepared to consider. This is DWP bureaucracy at it's best. I have to choose from a list of job types, and we can't use derivatives of the main ones already selected. This doesn't leave much. Her cursor runs up and down the list and hovers over the 'Ts'. "Taxi Driver" I say, spotting it in the list. Well, why not? It's as likely as anything else.
Then the whammy. As this is my 6-month review, I now need to make additional visits to the JC over the next 6 weeks, so that I attend every week. Why, I ask? Alison does a good job of keeping a straight face whilst she confirms this is to see if there's anything else they can do to help me. So, this in-between interview will be more than just signing-on? Yes, I am assured, this is a proper 20-minute interview with looking up jobs and, well, anything else. Excellent.
I ask about Work Trials, something I heard about via networking. Alison looks evasive, then confirms that's really only for warehouse staff. OK, where's the broom? No, seriously, I can sweep-up as well as anyone, and after a shift on the warehouse floor, the MD will spy my talents, sweep me up to the boardroom and hand me a key to the executive bathroom. Well, you never know.
After a moments thought, Alison agrees to pop upstairs to see God and see if there are any partnership agreements in place with local employers that would better suit me. Whilst I am waiting, Man Mountain lumbers past and I stop him to ask about the Stage 3 reference. He looks sheepish and admits he shouldn't have told me. I say that in oncological terms, I am in a pretty dire situation, and can he tell me if there's a Stage 5? Or am I terminal? He declines to answer.
Alison returns saying that if I can find a local company that will enter into a DWP Work Trial, then they'll do the paperwork. It really is self-serve all the way.
I'm also worth £1,000 to any company that takes me on, due to the Recruitment Subsidy scheme. Alison hands me a sheaf of photocopied leaflets for me to enclose with any CVs or applications I send off. Over my rapidly cooling body, I think. Bad enough having to go through the application mincer, without flashing a big red flag that shouts 'Loser'.
I ask Alison about Stages 4 onwards. She looks grim and confirms that I really, really, really don't want to be around for the 18 month review. No, you're right, I don't. We part amicably and I fervently hope I never see her again.
Man Mountain is back downstairs with Mr In-Tray. I call a cheery goodbye and the big man says, mock serious, that he doesn't want me back here for the 9-months review. I couldn't agree more and concede that I am a total disgrace and can't believe I have got this far in the hall of shame. Man Mountain throws back his head and belly laughs (and he's got the equipment for it) and even Mr In-Tray manages a watery smile.
It's a small victory.
Thursday 6 May 2010
A Voice of Reason Amongst the Madness
It's such a little thing. Miniscule. Microscopic.
I have been summoned for my ritual humiliation interview (sorry, 6-month review) next Tuesday, 9.40am, no less. For those in the know, me before 11am is not pretty. I need buckets of caffeine to even focus. But this is not the problem.
The issue is that my usual signing-on day is Monday, at 3.45pm. It seems a waste of everyone's time (mine in particular) to insist on going in two days running. Not to mention the long weekend I have planned.
Now, in the real world, asking to combine the two appointments would be a no-brainer. Particularly as I am, ahem, the customer. No, don't laugh. It's the only environment I know where the customer is regarded, on the whole, as vermin. And I have already experienced what being 2 minutes late means, let alone not going at all.
So, a phone call. Call centre hell, here I come. Lee sounds like a decent chap, if not quite fulfilled by his career choice. But after several repeats of the JC name, followed by me spelling it out, I get put through. The 'phone rings for a long time, but I settle in for the wait. I know the 'phone ringing at my JC is regarded as an irritant that's best ignored, but I am determined.
My Guardian Angel is on the case. Kate answers. Considering the range of dreadful options I could have had, this is a wonderful fluke. I say who I am and Kate (bless her) knows who she's talking to. I ask her if she received my fulsome e-mail on the outsourcing agents she requested and she confesses, yes, she has, but has not read it properly yet. Feeling a little Quid Pro Quo moment coming on, I put my dilemma to Kate and wait.
There is a pause, but I have learned a lot about playing the long game with the JC. An issue that I would impatiently chivvy along as minor in the real world is left hanging, as issues like this are Very Serious in DWP-land. I try to project a smile into the silence. (Think, appeasing chimpanzee simper).
Kate finally concedes that, yes, it does seem a bit daft coming in both days, going so far as to comment that the DWP really doesn't do joined-up like it should. I could kiss her. Except it's bound to be against their 'no fraternising' policy. They must have one, somewhere. She makes the required note on my file.
I replace the receiver with a contented smile. I can go forth on my long weekend in bracing Filey without worrying about racing home for my irrelevant Monday appointment.
Four days of salty sea air beckons and I can't wait.
I have been summoned for my ritual humiliation interview (sorry, 6-month review) next Tuesday, 9.40am, no less. For those in the know, me before 11am is not pretty. I need buckets of caffeine to even focus. But this is not the problem.
The issue is that my usual signing-on day is Monday, at 3.45pm. It seems a waste of everyone's time (mine in particular) to insist on going in two days running. Not to mention the long weekend I have planned.
Now, in the real world, asking to combine the two appointments would be a no-brainer. Particularly as I am, ahem, the customer. No, don't laugh. It's the only environment I know where the customer is regarded, on the whole, as vermin. And I have already experienced what being 2 minutes late means, let alone not going at all.
So, a phone call. Call centre hell, here I come. Lee sounds like a decent chap, if not quite fulfilled by his career choice. But after several repeats of the JC name, followed by me spelling it out, I get put through. The 'phone rings for a long time, but I settle in for the wait. I know the 'phone ringing at my JC is regarded as an irritant that's best ignored, but I am determined.
My Guardian Angel is on the case. Kate answers. Considering the range of dreadful options I could have had, this is a wonderful fluke. I say who I am and Kate (bless her) knows who she's talking to. I ask her if she received my fulsome e-mail on the outsourcing agents she requested and she confesses, yes, she has, but has not read it properly yet. Feeling a little Quid Pro Quo moment coming on, I put my dilemma to Kate and wait.
There is a pause, but I have learned a lot about playing the long game with the JC. An issue that I would impatiently chivvy along as minor in the real world is left hanging, as issues like this are Very Serious in DWP-land. I try to project a smile into the silence. (Think, appeasing chimpanzee simper).
Kate finally concedes that, yes, it does seem a bit daft coming in both days, going so far as to comment that the DWP really doesn't do joined-up like it should. I could kiss her. Except it's bound to be against their 'no fraternising' policy. They must have one, somewhere. She makes the required note on my file.
I replace the receiver with a contented smile. I can go forth on my long weekend in bracing Filey without worrying about racing home for my irrelevant Monday appointment.
Four days of salty sea air beckons and I can't wait.
Monday 26 April 2010
Volte-face
I am deeply disappointed with Man Mountain and tell him so. He never did make it to the local ground for the final home game of the season and missed a fabulously joyous match-end pitch invasion. I impart this news and he looks somewhat shamefaced.
Bouncing along to the waiting area, it's remarkable how I feel so familiar with this place. The punters in the waiting area look like they've already given up, though I am startled when one woman stands up to take her turn and positively waddles across the floor. She looks like she's days away from giving birth, and I catch myself gaping. (A most unattractive look). Please tell me she is not presenting herself as actively looking for work, I simply don't believe it.
There's only two on again today and I settle down for a long wait. I am reading a thoroughly worthy, if somewhat dry, self-help book* and figure I can plough though a chapter whilst I wait for either Adorable Emma, or Crumpled Brenda, as those are today's choices. I note that Brenda is wearing the same outfit again today. In fact, when I think about it, it's the same outfit every time I see her. Now, either that's her 'Monday' outfit, or she's like The Men In Black who only have one outfit - 'the last suit they'll ever wear'. Except in her case it's a crumpled linen smock and truly hideous flappy trousers.
Out of left field I see a flash of Kate and she calls my name in a sort of conspiritorial way, which intrigues me. I traipse into her office after her and she confesses she saw me waiting and grabbed my paperwork so she could interview me. I have jumped the queue in a most un-British fashion and feel the eyes of the others still waiting boring into my back, resentfully.
Kate is impatient to ask me what I thought of my training session with Aaron, as opposed the other DWP-sponsored one I have recently been on. She is truly interested in finding out which company offers the better support to redundant execs, as it turns out they are both bombarding her with marketing material in the hope of becoming the premier consultancy on the list. Which, I assume, equals a nice steady little earner. Kate confesses she has not had time to read all the material and really wants my opinion.
It's an extraordinary moment, in that I sense a sudden and palpable shift of power. I feel odd for a moment before I realise why. I am being consulted. I am being asked for my professional opinion about a business matter and someone really, really wants to know what I think. They may even base a commercial decision on what I say. I used to do this. A lot. But it's been a long time and it stirs something deep within: a reminder of the corporate world and a sense of self assurance that I have not felt in a long time. And not once within the confines of the DWP.
We have an animated discussion about the various recruitment professionals I have experienced, whether referred by them, or not, and Kate listens with great interest, asking pertinent and intelligent questions. Would I mind, she asks, e-mailing her later this week (after my final external consultation), and tell her which company offers the better programme?
She despatches the usual admin with ferocious efficiency, finishing with dashing out her e-mail address and direct line for me to get back to her later in the week. Our conversation finishes on a high, with a prediction that I must land a decent job soon, surely. "You watch," she says with real belief, "you'll land a job soon, and it'll be a bloody good one." A brief pause, whilst she glances nervously at the open office door. " 'Scuse my French".
*The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
Bouncing along to the waiting area, it's remarkable how I feel so familiar with this place. The punters in the waiting area look like they've already given up, though I am startled when one woman stands up to take her turn and positively waddles across the floor. She looks like she's days away from giving birth, and I catch myself gaping. (A most unattractive look). Please tell me she is not presenting herself as actively looking for work, I simply don't believe it.
There's only two on again today and I settle down for a long wait. I am reading a thoroughly worthy, if somewhat dry, self-help book* and figure I can plough though a chapter whilst I wait for either Adorable Emma, or Crumpled Brenda, as those are today's choices. I note that Brenda is wearing the same outfit again today. In fact, when I think about it, it's the same outfit every time I see her. Now, either that's her 'Monday' outfit, or she's like The Men In Black who only have one outfit - 'the last suit they'll ever wear'. Except in her case it's a crumpled linen smock and truly hideous flappy trousers.
Out of left field I see a flash of Kate and she calls my name in a sort of conspiritorial way, which intrigues me. I traipse into her office after her and she confesses she saw me waiting and grabbed my paperwork so she could interview me. I have jumped the queue in a most un-British fashion and feel the eyes of the others still waiting boring into my back, resentfully.
Kate is impatient to ask me what I thought of my training session with Aaron, as opposed the other DWP-sponsored one I have recently been on. She is truly interested in finding out which company offers the better support to redundant execs, as it turns out they are both bombarding her with marketing material in the hope of becoming the premier consultancy on the list. Which, I assume, equals a nice steady little earner. Kate confesses she has not had time to read all the material and really wants my opinion.
It's an extraordinary moment, in that I sense a sudden and palpable shift of power. I feel odd for a moment before I realise why. I am being consulted. I am being asked for my professional opinion about a business matter and someone really, really wants to know what I think. They may even base a commercial decision on what I say. I used to do this. A lot. But it's been a long time and it stirs something deep within: a reminder of the corporate world and a sense of self assurance that I have not felt in a long time. And not once within the confines of the DWP.
We have an animated discussion about the various recruitment professionals I have experienced, whether referred by them, or not, and Kate listens with great interest, asking pertinent and intelligent questions. Would I mind, she asks, e-mailing her later this week (after my final external consultation), and tell her which company offers the better programme?
She despatches the usual admin with ferocious efficiency, finishing with dashing out her e-mail address and direct line for me to get back to her later in the week. Our conversation finishes on a high, with a prediction that I must land a decent job soon, surely. "You watch," she says with real belief, "you'll land a job soon, and it'll be a bloody good one." A brief pause, whilst she glances nervously at the open office door. " 'Scuse my French".
*The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
Tuesday 20 April 2010
A Friday Odyssey
Today is an oddity.
It's not my usual signing-on day, yet here I am, leaping up the steps to the JC. Why? Because the referral to the latest external career specialist has resulted in a 2-hour coaching session, held at the JC. This is a one-to-one exercise and we have been promised a private office. I do hope so. Bearing my professional soul in the middle of the zoo that is the ground floor does not appeal.
The young security guard flashes a welcoming smile at me and I'm not sure if I am more dazzled by his teeth or his diamond earrings. Haven't seen him in quite a while. He's quite a charmer and I suspect he prefers the company of the more fragrant female staff on The Mysterious First Floor.
Having ascertained that my Career Coach has yet to arrive (by bellowing my name and my business across the floor to Crumpled Brenda), the Be-jeweled One directs me to the usual waiting area.
It's exceptionally quiet. Perhaps the appointments are deliberately wound down on a Friday afternoon. It's quiet enough that I can overhear the conversation between Adorable Emma and another JC advisor. I love the way they call us punters 'customers'. The last time I experienced such surreal customer service was in the early days of NTL.
I wait. And wait. My guy is late. A 'phone rings and rings. No-one answers it. I have skimmed all the newspapers and am now bored. My mobile shows a voicemail from the Consultant. His garbled message confirms he is in one of those wading-through-treacle car journeys that usually only happen in nightmares. Or Friday afternoons, if you take the wrong turning off the A31.
Man Mountain spots me waiting and looks puzzled. It's worrying when the security staff know what day you usually come in. I try to look poised and unconcerned, very much like when you know you've been stood-up.
Poor Aaron* falls though the door, sweating and mortified about being 30 minutes late. He apologises profusely and says that he tried ringing the JC so they could pass a message onto me but that no-one answered the 'phone. Funny, that.
The two hours I spend with Aaron are the most constructive I have experienced within the confines of the JC. The coaching is all about hitting-the-ground-running after redundancy and how to get your campaign together, rather than passively joining the flow of the masses. Why, I ask, is this not available in the first few weeks then? He shakes his head and says he is tired of telling the DWP that they should refer ALL redundant execs within the first few weeks, but no-one seems to listen. Here I am, five months into unemployment hell and only now am I really getting to hear how to go about campaigning effectively. The only reason I am here is from networking. A contact of a contact went on one of their sessions and raved about it. It had never been suggested by anyone at my JC, even though they clearly have a partner agreement in place with them. What is going on? Why is this all such a big secret? Is it really about saving money (I appreciate the DWP fund these sessions), or is it mere incompetence? Apathy? It makes my blood boil that redundant execs are having to rely on the Chinese whispers of the networking system to access these services.
After 90 minutes I am done-in. It's pretty intense and we spend the last 30 minutes re-capping. I take my leave of Aaron and am already mentally compiling a list of contacts to inform about this company and what they offer.
Man Mountain and Crumpled Brenda are doing their usual double-act at the door, which I note is broken again. I do hope they don't spend more money getting it fixed. I would hate them to have to dip into the Essential Leaflet Fund. Goodness, where would we be then?
*Name has been changed
It's not my usual signing-on day, yet here I am, leaping up the steps to the JC. Why? Because the referral to the latest external career specialist has resulted in a 2-hour coaching session, held at the JC. This is a one-to-one exercise and we have been promised a private office. I do hope so. Bearing my professional soul in the middle of the zoo that is the ground floor does not appeal.
The young security guard flashes a welcoming smile at me and I'm not sure if I am more dazzled by his teeth or his diamond earrings. Haven't seen him in quite a while. He's quite a charmer and I suspect he prefers the company of the more fragrant female staff on The Mysterious First Floor.
Having ascertained that my Career Coach has yet to arrive (by bellowing my name and my business across the floor to Crumpled Brenda), the Be-jeweled One directs me to the usual waiting area.
It's exceptionally quiet. Perhaps the appointments are deliberately wound down on a Friday afternoon. It's quiet enough that I can overhear the conversation between Adorable Emma and another JC advisor. I love the way they call us punters 'customers'. The last time I experienced such surreal customer service was in the early days of NTL.
I wait. And wait. My guy is late. A 'phone rings and rings. No-one answers it. I have skimmed all the newspapers and am now bored. My mobile shows a voicemail from the Consultant. His garbled message confirms he is in one of those wading-through-treacle car journeys that usually only happen in nightmares. Or Friday afternoons, if you take the wrong turning off the A31.
Man Mountain spots me waiting and looks puzzled. It's worrying when the security staff know what day you usually come in. I try to look poised and unconcerned, very much like when you know you've been stood-up.
Poor Aaron* falls though the door, sweating and mortified about being 30 minutes late. He apologises profusely and says that he tried ringing the JC so they could pass a message onto me but that no-one answered the 'phone. Funny, that.
The two hours I spend with Aaron are the most constructive I have experienced within the confines of the JC. The coaching is all about hitting-the-ground-running after redundancy and how to get your campaign together, rather than passively joining the flow of the masses. Why, I ask, is this not available in the first few weeks then? He shakes his head and says he is tired of telling the DWP that they should refer ALL redundant execs within the first few weeks, but no-one seems to listen. Here I am, five months into unemployment hell and only now am I really getting to hear how to go about campaigning effectively. The only reason I am here is from networking. A contact of a contact went on one of their sessions and raved about it. It had never been suggested by anyone at my JC, even though they clearly have a partner agreement in place with them. What is going on? Why is this all such a big secret? Is it really about saving money (I appreciate the DWP fund these sessions), or is it mere incompetence? Apathy? It makes my blood boil that redundant execs are having to rely on the Chinese whispers of the networking system to access these services.
After 90 minutes I am done-in. It's pretty intense and we spend the last 30 minutes re-capping. I take my leave of Aaron and am already mentally compiling a list of contacts to inform about this company and what they offer.
Man Mountain and Crumpled Brenda are doing their usual double-act at the door, which I note is broken again. I do hope they don't spend more money getting it fixed. I would hate them to have to dip into the Essential Leaflet Fund. Goodness, where would we be then?
*Name has been changed
Friday 16 April 2010
Gissa Job
I positively bound up the JC steps today. There is no-one on meet-and-greet, so I wait at the desk and idly scan the reception area. The pillar beside me has two signs on it, positioned directly in line-of-sight of those on door-step duty. One says 'Complaints' the other 'Secret Shopper'. I have time to ponder the meaning of these signs, then it dawns on me that they are visual reminders for the welcoming committee. Just then, Man Mountain appears, apologising for keeping me waiting.
Is it true, I ask, that there are Secret Shoppers, tasked with visiting the JC as punters (sorry, customers) to test the effectiveness of this beloved DWP outpost? Man Mountain confirms that indeed there are such visitors. I am momentarily impressed at the idea of subversives testing their services, until he puts me right, confirming the only thing they are looking for is that staff hand out the right leaflets. Oh, that's OK then. I would hate to not have the correct leaflets, they're so incredibly useful for redundant execs. Taxpayers can rest easy in their beds knowing that the priorities are being attended to. How, I enquire, do I get appointed as one of these shoppers? I'm not doing much at the moment and I could submit a dazzling critique on leaflets. Alas, it seems the Secret Shoppers are employed by an outside agency, so I abandon that idea as my next career move and move into the waiting area.
It's another long one. I don't recognise anyone, again. This is quite alarming. Why am I so unemployable? What is wrong with me? They seem short staffed again and it's over 30 minutes before a harassed-looking Kate calls me into the side office, apologising for the wait. She looks dishevelled and wears the standard JC crumpled look. Some of the frontline staff carry this look to quite impressive lengths: Brenda, in particular, excels and I keep meaning to advise her to avoid linen. It makes me want to iron her, clothes and all.
Kate is lovely, but I feel like I'm the one doing the support. My 'what I did today' chart passes all benchmarks and at the end of reviewing it, and me, she looks across and almost wails "I can't understand why you can't get a job!". Well, that's two of us, so I can only shake my head in sympathy which seems to make her feel a bit better.
To change the subject I ask for a further travel expenses form. I have secured a second interview for a role (a first!) and though I don't have high hopes for the job, I might as well claim the rail fare back. Taking the opportunity, I ask how long the claims take to be processed and paid. "Oh, months" she says, so casually that I think I've misheard. Apparently, the backlog is so long that they are looking at paying claims submitted in March around July sometime. Such is the surreal world of the DWP.
The next request is for a referral to a coaching seminar given by a company I have heard about via networking. I am determined to get as many of these referrals as possible. If these blighters are cutting me off at 6 months, I need to get my money's worth now. Kate considers this request, then taps away. Then pauses and goes to The Mysterious First Floor to consult. Ten minutes later, she's back, clutching two different forms. Yes, they can refer me. I wait for the 'but' that is forming on her lips as we speak. But she doesn't know how to facilitate this and neither did the person she went to consult.
Recognising one of the forms as the elusive SL2JP form, I suggest I will be able to advise her, and quickly recommend we fill in that one, as the other does not seem relevant. Kate confides that she got this job after visiting the JC as a 'customer' for a while, before they asked her to join them. She's the second member of staff who has told me this tale, so I ask Kate if there are any jobs going. I say that I am sure I could do this. I seem to be more familiar with their bureaucracy than they are, but she says "Oh, I know you could do this job, but you wouldn't want to, for the money". She has a point.
Having gained my referral, I feel I have achieved all that can realistically be achieved and take my leave.
As I pass the desks that have dedicated phone lines directly to the benefits offices, I note there is a queue, mostly consisting of teenage parents with toddlers in tow, which is quite depressing.
Man Mountain is standing with Crumpled Brenda as I take my leave. He asks if I am planning to see the local football team at the weekend. Seems we are both fairweather fans. He might be rather suprised at me on the terraces. I carry about an alter ego called 'Chardonnay' and I lustily point out that the refs' parents don't seem to be married.
Is it true, I ask, that there are Secret Shoppers, tasked with visiting the JC as punters (sorry, customers) to test the effectiveness of this beloved DWP outpost? Man Mountain confirms that indeed there are such visitors. I am momentarily impressed at the idea of subversives testing their services, until he puts me right, confirming the only thing they are looking for is that staff hand out the right leaflets. Oh, that's OK then. I would hate to not have the correct leaflets, they're so incredibly useful for redundant execs. Taxpayers can rest easy in their beds knowing that the priorities are being attended to. How, I enquire, do I get appointed as one of these shoppers? I'm not doing much at the moment and I could submit a dazzling critique on leaflets. Alas, it seems the Secret Shoppers are employed by an outside agency, so I abandon that idea as my next career move and move into the waiting area.
It's another long one. I don't recognise anyone, again. This is quite alarming. Why am I so unemployable? What is wrong with me? They seem short staffed again and it's over 30 minutes before a harassed-looking Kate calls me into the side office, apologising for the wait. She looks dishevelled and wears the standard JC crumpled look. Some of the frontline staff carry this look to quite impressive lengths: Brenda, in particular, excels and I keep meaning to advise her to avoid linen. It makes me want to iron her, clothes and all.
Kate is lovely, but I feel like I'm the one doing the support. My 'what I did today' chart passes all benchmarks and at the end of reviewing it, and me, she looks across and almost wails "I can't understand why you can't get a job!". Well, that's two of us, so I can only shake my head in sympathy which seems to make her feel a bit better.
To change the subject I ask for a further travel expenses form. I have secured a second interview for a role (a first!) and though I don't have high hopes for the job, I might as well claim the rail fare back. Taking the opportunity, I ask how long the claims take to be processed and paid. "Oh, months" she says, so casually that I think I've misheard. Apparently, the backlog is so long that they are looking at paying claims submitted in March around July sometime. Such is the surreal world of the DWP.
The next request is for a referral to a coaching seminar given by a company I have heard about via networking. I am determined to get as many of these referrals as possible. If these blighters are cutting me off at 6 months, I need to get my money's worth now. Kate considers this request, then taps away. Then pauses and goes to The Mysterious First Floor to consult. Ten minutes later, she's back, clutching two different forms. Yes, they can refer me. I wait for the 'but' that is forming on her lips as we speak. But she doesn't know how to facilitate this and neither did the person she went to consult.
Recognising one of the forms as the elusive SL2JP form, I suggest I will be able to advise her, and quickly recommend we fill in that one, as the other does not seem relevant. Kate confides that she got this job after visiting the JC as a 'customer' for a while, before they asked her to join them. She's the second member of staff who has told me this tale, so I ask Kate if there are any jobs going. I say that I am sure I could do this. I seem to be more familiar with their bureaucracy than they are, but she says "Oh, I know you could do this job, but you wouldn't want to, for the money". She has a point.
Having gained my referral, I feel I have achieved all that can realistically be achieved and take my leave.
As I pass the desks that have dedicated phone lines directly to the benefits offices, I note there is a queue, mostly consisting of teenage parents with toddlers in tow, which is quite depressing.
Man Mountain is standing with Crumpled Brenda as I take my leave. He asks if I am planning to see the local football team at the weekend. Seems we are both fairweather fans. He might be rather suprised at me on the terraces. I carry about an alter ego called 'Chardonnay' and I lustily point out that the refs' parents don't seem to be married.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
A Rare and Exotic Orchid
Today, I am a woman on a mission.
Aside from signing-on, I must achieve three things -
1. I must not leave without a signed ABI1 form. I mean it this time.
2. I need to submit my latest expenses form.
3. I want a referral to an excellent recruitment seminar I have heard about.
Man Mountain makes some joshing joke about my local team's performance at the weekend. Honestly, I wish he'd never spotted me in the Doc Marten's that one time, he's never going to let up.
As I sit in the waiting area, I realise there is a rare funereal hush over the ground floor. Scanning the desks, I realise there are only two people working: Adorable Emma and a lady so far down the other end I can't see her properly. We wait. And wait. Twenty minutes later, I hear my name called by the lady-at-the-end-I-can't-quite-see. Talk about the walk of shame, it takes forever.
I am not often rendered speechless. But the lady on the other side of the desk is so extraordinary I fight hard not to positively gape at her. She is middle-aged, short and neat, with smart trousers and ballet pumps, a lush purple sweater and jaunty scarf. She has jewelled purple ear-rings and is beautifully made-up. Her hair is the most startling brick red, with a Cruella-type white flick at the front. She reminds me (momentarily) of a rusty badger.
She greets me with a lovely smile and the most captivating accent that I struggle to place. South African? No. Talk some more. Erm, Dutch? I have to ask. It's Swiss, apparently, but she congratulates me as the gutteral sounds are similar.
There is no badge on her sweater (most unusual) and I am tempted to ask her name, but decide not to, as I have already named her. That hair, that accent, that style, she will forever be Zsa Zsa to me. I keep expecting her to exclaim "Dahling!" after every sentence.
Zsa Zsa reviews my activity record and sighs "I wish everyone was so neat, and using highlighters too, great!" I feel a bit anal, but smile weakly. She asks if I have considered applying to LOCOG, currently recruiting for the Olympics in 2012 and I had not, so thank her for the suggestion. This exchange so far is nothing like any of the others I have experienced. Zsa Zsa works steadily and methodically, with none of the haste of the usual consultants. I wonder if she's new, therefore learning the ropes, but no, it transpires she has worked for the JC for 18 years. She has been drafted in from The Mysterious First Floor as two people called in sick today. She keeps apologising for being so slow, but it's a delight. She takes time to chat about all sorts and I begin to feel like a customer, rather than an irritant.
As she is tapping away, I hear raised voices behind me, near the front door. A young man, voice cracking with desperation is pleading with Mr In-Tray, something to do with benefits. I hear him wail that he's had £35 to live on for the last two weeks and he is wild with panic. I sense, rather than see the bulk that is Man Mountain rise to his feet and move to intercept. How can a man that size move so silently? I must have a look at his feet before I leave today.
Mr In-Tray speaks sternly to the young man and he calms and sits down to speak to the Benefits Office. It's the first time I have ever witnessed a potentially violent situation and it's quite mesmerising, in a ghoulish sort of way.
Turning back to Zsa Zsa, I ask for a referral to the seminar. "Oh yes, we can do that" she says, which rather begs the question why we have to find out about it elsewhere? Why isn't it automatically organised for the appropriate candidates? It's not her fault, and as if she reads my mind, she goes on to explain how the JC used to run a 3-week executive course that was really excellent. "But they don't do that any more," she sighs "anything good in this organisation, they stop." She sounds genuinely regretful.
She promises to ring the company later that day and I tell her about the form-in-the-in-tray-for-six-weeks story. She tuts and promises she will call. I believe her.
Next, the ABI1 form. Processed, given back to me, very efficient, thankyou.
Lastly, the expenses form. Zsa Zsa takes her time to check all is correct and it's all so........leisurely. If they could just bring a tea trolley round, the JC would be a cool place to hang out. I ask her about the previous expenses claim, which was handed in two weeks ago and I was told the money would be in my bank almost straight away. She rises to check and I am struck by how out of place she truly looks. She reminds me of a rare, exotic orchid amongst a bed of weeds. Many of the ground floor staff are total slobs: wrinkled baggy tops, shapeless baggy trousers, trainers, bodywarmers. And they slouch. It's so unprofessional and downright sloppy and winds me up every time I go there.
She looks mortified when she returns. "Miss X, I am so, so embarrassed" and I see she is clutching the first expenses form, which I have to say is looking distinctly un-processed. I know about these things. She explains that on checking why it had not been paid, she had been pointed towards a full in-tray, piled high with expenses forms and other paperwork. Poor Zsa Zsa was appalled. "Unacceptable!" she continued to mutter for quite some time, almost to herself.
She confesses (sotto voce) that she finds the standards on the ground floor shocking in the extreme, both in lack of a professional attitude and a sub-standard service. She apologises that the JC system is failing people 'like me' and tells me that the front-line consultants are instructed to keep claimants to 5-minute slots. That explains the conveyor belt feeling in that you can find yourself spat out of the front door before you've even sat down properly.
I reluctantly take my leave from Zsa Zsa. True, she has taken half-an-hour with me, a level of service I suspect is unsustainable, but what a treat she was.
An hour after leaving the JC, I receive a 'phone call from the recruitment company running the seminar, confirming my place.
I say make Zsa Zsa the JC Tsar, ruthless crusader against mediocrity. Now, there's a woman who'd get things done.
Aside from signing-on, I must achieve three things -
1. I must not leave without a signed ABI1 form. I mean it this time.
2. I need to submit my latest expenses form.
3. I want a referral to an excellent recruitment seminar I have heard about.
Man Mountain makes some joshing joke about my local team's performance at the weekend. Honestly, I wish he'd never spotted me in the Doc Marten's that one time, he's never going to let up.
As I sit in the waiting area, I realise there is a rare funereal hush over the ground floor. Scanning the desks, I realise there are only two people working: Adorable Emma and a lady so far down the other end I can't see her properly. We wait. And wait. Twenty minutes later, I hear my name called by the lady-at-the-end-I-can't-quite-see. Talk about the walk of shame, it takes forever.
I am not often rendered speechless. But the lady on the other side of the desk is so extraordinary I fight hard not to positively gape at her. She is middle-aged, short and neat, with smart trousers and ballet pumps, a lush purple sweater and jaunty scarf. She has jewelled purple ear-rings and is beautifully made-up. Her hair is the most startling brick red, with a Cruella-type white flick at the front. She reminds me (momentarily) of a rusty badger.
She greets me with a lovely smile and the most captivating accent that I struggle to place. South African? No. Talk some more. Erm, Dutch? I have to ask. It's Swiss, apparently, but she congratulates me as the gutteral sounds are similar.
There is no badge on her sweater (most unusual) and I am tempted to ask her name, but decide not to, as I have already named her. That hair, that accent, that style, she will forever be Zsa Zsa to me. I keep expecting her to exclaim "Dahling!" after every sentence.
Zsa Zsa reviews my activity record and sighs "I wish everyone was so neat, and using highlighters too, great!" I feel a bit anal, but smile weakly. She asks if I have considered applying to LOCOG, currently recruiting for the Olympics in 2012 and I had not, so thank her for the suggestion. This exchange so far is nothing like any of the others I have experienced. Zsa Zsa works steadily and methodically, with none of the haste of the usual consultants. I wonder if she's new, therefore learning the ropes, but no, it transpires she has worked for the JC for 18 years. She has been drafted in from The Mysterious First Floor as two people called in sick today. She keeps apologising for being so slow, but it's a delight. She takes time to chat about all sorts and I begin to feel like a customer, rather than an irritant.
As she is tapping away, I hear raised voices behind me, near the front door. A young man, voice cracking with desperation is pleading with Mr In-Tray, something to do with benefits. I hear him wail that he's had £35 to live on for the last two weeks and he is wild with panic. I sense, rather than see the bulk that is Man Mountain rise to his feet and move to intercept. How can a man that size move so silently? I must have a look at his feet before I leave today.
Mr In-Tray speaks sternly to the young man and he calms and sits down to speak to the Benefits Office. It's the first time I have ever witnessed a potentially violent situation and it's quite mesmerising, in a ghoulish sort of way.
Turning back to Zsa Zsa, I ask for a referral to the seminar. "Oh yes, we can do that" she says, which rather begs the question why we have to find out about it elsewhere? Why isn't it automatically organised for the appropriate candidates? It's not her fault, and as if she reads my mind, she goes on to explain how the JC used to run a 3-week executive course that was really excellent. "But they don't do that any more," she sighs "anything good in this organisation, they stop." She sounds genuinely regretful.
She promises to ring the company later that day and I tell her about the form-in-the-in-tray-for-six-weeks story. She tuts and promises she will call. I believe her.
Next, the ABI1 form. Processed, given back to me, very efficient, thankyou.
Lastly, the expenses form. Zsa Zsa takes her time to check all is correct and it's all so........leisurely. If they could just bring a tea trolley round, the JC would be a cool place to hang out. I ask her about the previous expenses claim, which was handed in two weeks ago and I was told the money would be in my bank almost straight away. She rises to check and I am struck by how out of place she truly looks. She reminds me of a rare, exotic orchid amongst a bed of weeds. Many of the ground floor staff are total slobs: wrinkled baggy tops, shapeless baggy trousers, trainers, bodywarmers. And they slouch. It's so unprofessional and downright sloppy and winds me up every time I go there.
She looks mortified when she returns. "Miss X, I am so, so embarrassed" and I see she is clutching the first expenses form, which I have to say is looking distinctly un-processed. I know about these things. She explains that on checking why it had not been paid, she had been pointed towards a full in-tray, piled high with expenses forms and other paperwork. Poor Zsa Zsa was appalled. "Unacceptable!" she continued to mutter for quite some time, almost to herself.
She confesses (sotto voce) that she finds the standards on the ground floor shocking in the extreme, both in lack of a professional attitude and a sub-standard service. She apologises that the JC system is failing people 'like me' and tells me that the front-line consultants are instructed to keep claimants to 5-minute slots. That explains the conveyor belt feeling in that you can find yourself spat out of the front door before you've even sat down properly.
I reluctantly take my leave from Zsa Zsa. True, she has taken half-an-hour with me, a level of service I suspect is unsustainable, but what a treat she was.
An hour after leaving the JC, I receive a 'phone call from the recruitment company running the seminar, confirming my place.
I say make Zsa Zsa the JC Tsar, ruthless crusader against mediocrity. Now, there's a woman who'd get things done.
Monday 22 March 2010
The Fame Game
I need a new travel expenses form.
Having been offered an interview at short notice and requiring this before I actually travel, I need to call into the JC today. It's not signing-on day, and knowing how they hate unannounced visitors, I call the local number I managed to obtain last time. It belongs to Brenda, however, knowing how she has an aversion to answering the 'phone, I don't hold out much hope, but it's better than calling the ghastly 0845 number. It rings for quite a while. No answer.
I call the 0845 number, resigned to call centre hell. The recorded message informs me that my call cannot be taken as all the operators are busy. Goodbye.
Sigh. Back to Brenda's number. It rings and rings. I can imagine it ringing in the JC. I expect the staff become immune to the irritating noise and just block it out after a while. They would probably be astonished if they actually answered it, to discover that there's someone at the other end, requiring their services.
I put the 'phone down and feel the familiar rush of frustration and rage that comes upon me whenever I try to deal with hopelessly bloated and inefficient government departments. I begin to feel some empathy with Michael Douglas in Falling Down when a traffic jam sends him over the edge and he runs amok with a loaded shotgun. This momentary vision fades as I realise I need to gate-crash the JC instead.
Today it's Mr In-Tray, plus two security guards (honestly, they must have an awful lot of rucks down there) one of whom is so weedy I expect I could take him to the floor without too much effort. Still, it keeps him off the jobless stats and I'm all for that. With an optimistic smile, I explain to Mr In-Tray that I have an interview and need a travel form, pretty please. He has a look of real dislike on his face and in another world I would take him aside and ask him if he (a) hates his job, or (b) hates me in particular, but now is not the time.
"NI number?" he snaps, his favourite greeting when he's on door-step duty. If this was Hollywood and I was someone terribly scary/sexy - say, Angelina Jolie, I would icily retort "I am not a number". Just like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, before being chased by a giant, white ball. As it is, I reel off the number, and without missing a beat he says "It's Miss X, isn't it?" I am stunned. He knows my name.
What? How? He has not accessed the database, so he either has the ability to memorise every single claimant (surely not) or I am notorious. In his mind, at least. I cannot be memorable in a good way, he never looks pleased to see me. Or anyone else, for that matter. For a split second I wonder if he has discovered this blog and somehow identified me, and therefore himself. Eeek! A camera shot of my face at that precise moment would be one to treasure.
Leaving me with this thought, he stamps off, returning with the form, duly logged and all official.
He does manage a "Good luck with the interview" as I head out the door, which surprises me.
I am left with a feeling of disquiet. Could it be? Somehow the crew at the JC are secret readers of this blog? Maybe there's a sweep on who's who? Perhaps they are all vying for a mention, albeit incognito.
After all, everyone wants their 15 minutes.
Having been offered an interview at short notice and requiring this before I actually travel, I need to call into the JC today. It's not signing-on day, and knowing how they hate unannounced visitors, I call the local number I managed to obtain last time. It belongs to Brenda, however, knowing how she has an aversion to answering the 'phone, I don't hold out much hope, but it's better than calling the ghastly 0845 number. It rings for quite a while. No answer.
I call the 0845 number, resigned to call centre hell. The recorded message informs me that my call cannot be taken as all the operators are busy. Goodbye.
Sigh. Back to Brenda's number. It rings and rings. I can imagine it ringing in the JC. I expect the staff become immune to the irritating noise and just block it out after a while. They would probably be astonished if they actually answered it, to discover that there's someone at the other end, requiring their services.
I put the 'phone down and feel the familiar rush of frustration and rage that comes upon me whenever I try to deal with hopelessly bloated and inefficient government departments. I begin to feel some empathy with Michael Douglas in Falling Down when a traffic jam sends him over the edge and he runs amok with a loaded shotgun. This momentary vision fades as I realise I need to gate-crash the JC instead.
Today it's Mr In-Tray, plus two security guards (honestly, they must have an awful lot of rucks down there) one of whom is so weedy I expect I could take him to the floor without too much effort. Still, it keeps him off the jobless stats and I'm all for that. With an optimistic smile, I explain to Mr In-Tray that I have an interview and need a travel form, pretty please. He has a look of real dislike on his face and in another world I would take him aside and ask him if he (a) hates his job, or (b) hates me in particular, but now is not the time.
"NI number?" he snaps, his favourite greeting when he's on door-step duty. If this was Hollywood and I was someone terribly scary/sexy - say, Angelina Jolie, I would icily retort "I am not a number". Just like Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner, before being chased by a giant, white ball. As it is, I reel off the number, and without missing a beat he says "It's Miss X, isn't it?" I am stunned. He knows my name.
What? How? He has not accessed the database, so he either has the ability to memorise every single claimant (surely not) or I am notorious. In his mind, at least. I cannot be memorable in a good way, he never looks pleased to see me. Or anyone else, for that matter. For a split second I wonder if he has discovered this blog and somehow identified me, and therefore himself. Eeek! A camera shot of my face at that precise moment would be one to treasure.
Leaving me with this thought, he stamps off, returning with the form, duly logged and all official.
He does manage a "Good luck with the interview" as I head out the door, which surprises me.
I am left with a feeling of disquiet. Could it be? Somehow the crew at the JC are secret readers of this blog? Maybe there's a sweep on who's who? Perhaps they are all vying for a mention, albeit incognito.
After all, everyone wants their 15 minutes.
Monday 15 March 2010
Nadir
Man Mountain is looking very gloomy. It seems he is keen to get his motorbike back on the road after the endless, dreary winter and has just heard the forecast is set to change back to rain, rain and more rain.
He hauls himself to standing with a sigh and I suddenly feel very short. It's like having a benign grizzly rear up and I decide that camping in Yellowstone is definitely off the holiday list. Up close all of a sudden, I think that he's wearing a heavily patterned t-shirt under his uniform shirt, but quickly realise he's into body art. In a big way.
The waiting area is packed. Standing room only. I realise I don't recognise anyone. This is mildly depressing, as it means that the regulars who used to share this appointment time with me have moved on and found gainful employment. A woman's pink mobile 'phone chirrups constantly with messages and she taps away, oblivious that she is sitting underneath the large sign that asks punters to turn their mobiles off.
I note Eva is back on duty and fervently hope I don't draw that straw. Next to her, Adorable Emma is her usual fiendishly efficient self, interviewing at least three people for everyone else's one, and all done with her cheery, supportive style that must grind Eva's gears.
My name is called by a new and, mercifully, mature face called Kate* who leads me to a side office. My immediate thought is I must be in trouble (distant memories of being called into the headmaster's office flash through my mind) but it seems it's just logistics. They've run out of desks in the main office.
Kate is just the right mix of encouraging sympathy that I need today and I confess that I am fed up now. Bored. Enough playing, just let me back into the world of work. Not quite Yosser Hughes, but ask again in another few weeks. She reviews my activity levels (13 applications in the last two weeks) and we have a communal moan about how crap employers are at advising applicants whether they have been shortlisted.
"Things are looking up though, lots more job opportunities and more people getting jobs locally", says Kate. Really? I brighten for a split second. "Oh, but not at your level" (whatever that is). Oh. Shoulders resume sagging.
I am too depressed to even offer a parting greeting to Man Mountain.
Outside, it's started to rain.
*Name has been changed
He hauls himself to standing with a sigh and I suddenly feel very short. It's like having a benign grizzly rear up and I decide that camping in Yellowstone is definitely off the holiday list. Up close all of a sudden, I think that he's wearing a heavily patterned t-shirt under his uniform shirt, but quickly realise he's into body art. In a big way.
The waiting area is packed. Standing room only. I realise I don't recognise anyone. This is mildly depressing, as it means that the regulars who used to share this appointment time with me have moved on and found gainful employment. A woman's pink mobile 'phone chirrups constantly with messages and she taps away, oblivious that she is sitting underneath the large sign that asks punters to turn their mobiles off.
I note Eva is back on duty and fervently hope I don't draw that straw. Next to her, Adorable Emma is her usual fiendishly efficient self, interviewing at least three people for everyone else's one, and all done with her cheery, supportive style that must grind Eva's gears.
My name is called by a new and, mercifully, mature face called Kate* who leads me to a side office. My immediate thought is I must be in trouble (distant memories of being called into the headmaster's office flash through my mind) but it seems it's just logistics. They've run out of desks in the main office.
Kate is just the right mix of encouraging sympathy that I need today and I confess that I am fed up now. Bored. Enough playing, just let me back into the world of work. Not quite Yosser Hughes, but ask again in another few weeks. She reviews my activity levels (13 applications in the last two weeks) and we have a communal moan about how crap employers are at advising applicants whether they have been shortlisted.
"Things are looking up though, lots more job opportunities and more people getting jobs locally", says Kate. Really? I brighten for a split second. "Oh, but not at your level" (whatever that is). Oh. Shoulders resume sagging.
I am too depressed to even offer a parting greeting to Man Mountain.
Outside, it's started to rain.
*Name has been changed
Monday 1 March 2010
High Noon
Whenever I am nervous, I dress to kill. Today, that could be quite literal, as I am doing an Emma Peel (think Diana Rigg in The Avengers) and stride into the JC with head held high for my 3-month review. The welcoming committee consists of Mr In-Tray, with two (repeat, two) young security guards lolling up against the desk. They brighten considerably at the sight of my black-skinnies whilst Mr In-Tray scowls a disapproving look. I am directed to the Mysterious First Floor.
There are two of us in the holding pen, sorry, waiting area. I am early and spend ten minutes observing Man Mountain laughing and joking with a female member of staff. This charming cabaret lasts until it's time for my interview and she calls my name.
Alison* is all business-like with me. The switch from jolly colleague to stern school-marm is marked, and sets the tone nicely. We review the Job Seekers Agreement, which is where I confirm I will do a minimum number of activities on a weekly basis, in return for my JS Allowance. Confident that I far exceed the minimum quota, I relax as we discuss my job searching methods.
I score an own-goal when I confess I don't use the JC's own website for job searching. This is a typically clunky government vehicle, with none of the flexibility and functionality of the very many commercial sites I use. Despite this argument, my reluctance to consult the government's own site appears to be a Big Deal.
We chat about the kind of roles I am applying for and Alison points out that the 'required salary' on my JC record may have to be adjusted downwards as time goes on. This is a moot point as far as I am concerned. I have already made it clear that the roles I am applying for are at half the package I was on before and I'm cool about that. So, Gallic shrug.
I sense this frustrates Alison and she launches into a school-marmish finger wagging episode where she makes it clear that if I come back for a 6-month review, she will be adjusting the required salary down to the National Minimum Wage and I'll have to accept any job I am offered on that or it's counted as a 'refusal'. It's as if there is a script for this review and irrespective of my individual situation, the script must be read through.
This is depressing, but I am impassive. Three months in the system and I'm becoming attuned to DWP policy, both in substance and delivery.
We move onto the applications I have been making, which far exceed the required minimum. Having given me a hard time earlier, I insist that Alison looks at my file of applications, which is the size and weight of a breeze block and makes a satisfying thump as it lands on her desk. I hadn't lumped it all the way there for fun and it was damn well going to be seen.
I notice the fellow wastrel at the next desk has brought nothing with him for 'show and tell'. Despite that, his advisor is laughing and smiling encouragingly. Good thing too as he seems a bit depressed and just wrings his hands saying there are no suitable jobs out there. He looks like a professional man at a complete loss as to how to deal with the situation he finds himself in.
The breeze block pacifies Alison and she thaws a little. She completes the formalities and presents me with my updated JS Agreement, which will see me through to the 6-month review. After that, what? After that, it seems, there is no more JS Allowance. Full stop. So, living the high life, courtesy of the tax-payer is apparently only available to.....well, quite a lot of the great unwashed, according to the Daily Mail. I don't quite see how they get away with it. There must be an entire underground dedicated to advising serial shirkers how to milk the system for long-term benefit. I clearly don't move in the right circles.
*Name has been changed
There are two of us in the holding pen, sorry, waiting area. I am early and spend ten minutes observing Man Mountain laughing and joking with a female member of staff. This charming cabaret lasts until it's time for my interview and she calls my name.
Alison* is all business-like with me. The switch from jolly colleague to stern school-marm is marked, and sets the tone nicely. We review the Job Seekers Agreement, which is where I confirm I will do a minimum number of activities on a weekly basis, in return for my JS Allowance. Confident that I far exceed the minimum quota, I relax as we discuss my job searching methods.
I score an own-goal when I confess I don't use the JC's own website for job searching. This is a typically clunky government vehicle, with none of the flexibility and functionality of the very many commercial sites I use. Despite this argument, my reluctance to consult the government's own site appears to be a Big Deal.
We chat about the kind of roles I am applying for and Alison points out that the 'required salary' on my JC record may have to be adjusted downwards as time goes on. This is a moot point as far as I am concerned. I have already made it clear that the roles I am applying for are at half the package I was on before and I'm cool about that. So, Gallic shrug.
I sense this frustrates Alison and she launches into a school-marmish finger wagging episode where she makes it clear that if I come back for a 6-month review, she will be adjusting the required salary down to the National Minimum Wage and I'll have to accept any job I am offered on that or it's counted as a 'refusal'. It's as if there is a script for this review and irrespective of my individual situation, the script must be read through.
This is depressing, but I am impassive. Three months in the system and I'm becoming attuned to DWP policy, both in substance and delivery.
We move onto the applications I have been making, which far exceed the required minimum. Having given me a hard time earlier, I insist that Alison looks at my file of applications, which is the size and weight of a breeze block and makes a satisfying thump as it lands on her desk. I hadn't lumped it all the way there for fun and it was damn well going to be seen.
I notice the fellow wastrel at the next desk has brought nothing with him for 'show and tell'. Despite that, his advisor is laughing and smiling encouragingly. Good thing too as he seems a bit depressed and just wrings his hands saying there are no suitable jobs out there. He looks like a professional man at a complete loss as to how to deal with the situation he finds himself in.
The breeze block pacifies Alison and she thaws a little. She completes the formalities and presents me with my updated JS Agreement, which will see me through to the 6-month review. After that, what? After that, it seems, there is no more JS Allowance. Full stop. So, living the high life, courtesy of the tax-payer is apparently only available to.....well, quite a lot of the great unwashed, according to the Daily Mail. I don't quite see how they get away with it. There must be an entire underground dedicated to advising serial shirkers how to milk the system for long-term benefit. I clearly don't move in the right circles.
*Name has been changed
Monday 22 February 2010
Essential Admin
The good news is that I have secured an appointment to collect an ABI1 form. The not-so-good news is that it is with Bellicose Brenda.
I sit opposite Brenda and note that her badge states her job as 'Customer Service'. Considering my only other encounter with BB fell somewhere short of an enriching customer experience, I reserve judgement. We go through the formalities and I begin to warm to Brenda. She's a bit of a Jobsworth, but I don't detect any malice. I have to conclude that when she pursued me through the JC to berate me on my timekeeping, she was, in fact, just following orders. Working in this place must eventually make you one of two things: (a) anal, or (b) apathetic and she is definitely the former.
Brenda is nursing laryngitis and says that's why she can't answer the constantly ringing 'phone. But then, neither does anyone else. It rings. And rings. And rings. This, despite Mr In-Tray wafting around the vicinity.
I also ask about travel expenses for my first interview in just over a week. (An interview! I am beyond excited!) Considering that meaningfully engaging with the public is not her strongest point, Brenda does a pretty fair job of smiley encouragement. Not a patch on Adorable Emma, of course.
Leaving the JC I am triumphant. I have the completed ABI1 form, plus an expenses form for my travel to London. The 'phone is still ringing as the door closes behind me.
I sit opposite Brenda and note that her badge states her job as 'Customer Service'. Considering my only other encounter with BB fell somewhere short of an enriching customer experience, I reserve judgement. We go through the formalities and I begin to warm to Brenda. She's a bit of a Jobsworth, but I don't detect any malice. I have to conclude that when she pursued me through the JC to berate me on my timekeeping, she was, in fact, just following orders. Working in this place must eventually make you one of two things: (a) anal, or (b) apathetic and she is definitely the former.
Brenda is nursing laryngitis and says that's why she can't answer the constantly ringing 'phone. But then, neither does anyone else. It rings. And rings. And rings. This, despite Mr In-Tray wafting around the vicinity.
I also ask about travel expenses for my first interview in just over a week. (An interview! I am beyond excited!) Considering that meaningfully engaging with the public is not her strongest point, Brenda does a pretty fair job of smiley encouragement. Not a patch on Adorable Emma, of course.
Leaving the JC I am triumphant. I have the completed ABI1 form, plus an expenses form for my travel to London. The 'phone is still ringing as the door closes behind me.
Harrison Ford never had this problem...
I am in search of the Holy Grail, the ABI1 form. I cannot wait till my next sign-on as that will be too late for my mortgage payment to be paid by the insurance company. Not sure whether I can just turn up on-spec or whether an appointment is necessary, but knowing the bureaucracy of the DWP I suspect the latter. I decide to 'phone, as I have the local number for my JC.
Alas, a disembodied voice informs me that the number has been changed to an 0845 number, which I know, with a sinking heart, equals call-centre hell. Gathering all my paperwork around me, I dial the number. The call is eventually answered by a very harassed lady who, once I have explained my quest, asks me what JC I need to be referred to. She puts me through.
Assuming I am now talking to my local JC, I launch into my request. I am asked what JC I want. This throws me, so I confirm. "I'll put you through". Hmmmmmm.
I go through the identical conversation with the next person who answers. Seems she's not my local JC either. I ask her if I can just call in for the form, or do I need to make an appointment? She very nicely explains that every JC is different, so cannot say. But, "I'll put you through".
Not sure how, but I next talk to Robbie, who has a very strong Glaswegian accent. He's not at my local JC either and is baffled as to how I ended up with him. "I'll put you through".
The next lady isn't my local JC either. I tell her she is the fifth person I have been put through to and I'm still not in the right place. "Sounds like the kind of day I'm having" she mutters, not unkindly.
I'm so close with the next lady. She announces the name of her JC which is like mine (well, the first three letters are the same) but is, in fact, in completely the wrong part of the country. "Oh dear", she says, sympathetically, "this is happening all the time with people wanting your JC". I ask her if she can put me through to the one I want. It seems not. I must start again with the 0845 number.
I put the phone down and start the head-swinging that distressed polar bears often do in captivity. It suggests inner torment. I can confirm that it does, but that the head swinging does, in fact, help.
Alas, a disembodied voice informs me that the number has been changed to an 0845 number, which I know, with a sinking heart, equals call-centre hell. Gathering all my paperwork around me, I dial the number. The call is eventually answered by a very harassed lady who, once I have explained my quest, asks me what JC I need to be referred to. She puts me through.
Assuming I am now talking to my local JC, I launch into my request. I am asked what JC I want. This throws me, so I confirm. "I'll put you through". Hmmmmmm.
I go through the identical conversation with the next person who answers. Seems she's not my local JC either. I ask her if I can just call in for the form, or do I need to make an appointment? She very nicely explains that every JC is different, so cannot say. But, "I'll put you through".
Not sure how, but I next talk to Robbie, who has a very strong Glaswegian accent. He's not at my local JC either and is baffled as to how I ended up with him. "I'll put you through".
The next lady isn't my local JC either. I tell her she is the fifth person I have been put through to and I'm still not in the right place. "Sounds like the kind of day I'm having" she mutters, not unkindly.
I'm so close with the next lady. She announces the name of her JC which is like mine (well, the first three letters are the same) but is, in fact, in completely the wrong part of the country. "Oh dear", she says, sympathetically, "this is happening all the time with people wanting your JC". I ask her if she can put me through to the one I want. It seems not. I must start again with the 0845 number.
I put the phone down and start the head-swinging that distressed polar bears often do in captivity. It suggests inner torment. I can confirm that it does, but that the head swinging does, in fact, help.
Wednesday 17 February 2010
Full House
The JC door is broken again. There is a tea-stained sign taped up, helpfully advising 'PUSH'.
Quite a welcoming committee. Man Mountain is back, though half hidden behind a screen. Mind you, I'd recognise those tattoos anywhere, and besides, a half of Man Mountain is equivalent to a whole average man.
Also there is Mr In-Tray and the rather bellicose lady who berated me in public for my timekeeping. She looks like a 'Brenda' to me, though she does not wear a name badge. Bellicose Brenda. Yes, that works. I match their mechanical smiles, but manage a "Good Afternoon" which leaves me feeling on the moral high ground.
I must not forget to ask for an ABI1 form which I need to send to my mortgage insurance company. I must not forget. I must not forget.
One of the WAGs from last time is in the waiting area. Another man keeps checking his watch. I'm not sure why, surely he can't be in a hurry? To do what? A young man is seated in front of a consultant, but I note it is his wife (standing behind him, dealing with a querulous toddler in a pushchair) who answers all the questions put to him. I wonder if he plans to take her to interviews with him?
I see the delightful trainee again and this time I see she has written her name on a sticky label and stuck it on her 'trainee' badge. I am glad she finally has a name, as I find her quite adorable. Emma* goes through the usual, but then we get into quite an animated conversation about networking and other issues. She notes my recent applications, which does me enough for another two weeks of state-subsidised living. I also receive a letter requiring my attendance at my 3-month interview in two weeks' time. Oh, goody. I wonder if they offer sweeties for outstanding effort?
On the way out, Man Mountain asks me where my Doc Martens are. It's a worry when you're remembered.....
At home I realise I forgot to ask for the ABI1 form.
*Name has been changed
Quite a welcoming committee. Man Mountain is back, though half hidden behind a screen. Mind you, I'd recognise those tattoos anywhere, and besides, a half of Man Mountain is equivalent to a whole average man.
Also there is Mr In-Tray and the rather bellicose lady who berated me in public for my timekeeping. She looks like a 'Brenda' to me, though she does not wear a name badge. Bellicose Brenda. Yes, that works. I match their mechanical smiles, but manage a "Good Afternoon" which leaves me feeling on the moral high ground.
I must not forget to ask for an ABI1 form which I need to send to my mortgage insurance company. I must not forget. I must not forget.
One of the WAGs from last time is in the waiting area. Another man keeps checking his watch. I'm not sure why, surely he can't be in a hurry? To do what? A young man is seated in front of a consultant, but I note it is his wife (standing behind him, dealing with a querulous toddler in a pushchair) who answers all the questions put to him. I wonder if he plans to take her to interviews with him?
I see the delightful trainee again and this time I see she has written her name on a sticky label and stuck it on her 'trainee' badge. I am glad she finally has a name, as I find her quite adorable. Emma* goes through the usual, but then we get into quite an animated conversation about networking and other issues. She notes my recent applications, which does me enough for another two weeks of state-subsidised living. I also receive a letter requiring my attendance at my 3-month interview in two weeks' time. Oh, goody. I wonder if they offer sweeties for outstanding effort?
On the way out, Man Mountain asks me where my Doc Martens are. It's a worry when you're remembered.....
At home I realise I forgot to ask for the ABI1 form.
*Name has been changed
Friday 5 February 2010
I don't mean to be difficult.....
Man Mountain is not on meet-and-greet duty. This is a first.
A Nepalese gentleman is in his place. Now, local establishments in our vicinity seem to favour employing Nepalese men as security staff. I have always put this down to their benign and totally delightful demeanour to visiting customers, which I suspect hides their terrier-like instincts to rugby tackle any ne'er-do-wells. A cunning disguise, as Baldrick would say.
The Job Centre must have searched high and low for the only grumpy Nepalese man in the county. Either that, or he has been told to drop the Mr Nice Guy and remember that this is a JC, thus full of wastrels, and not Waitrose.
Taking my place in the heaving waiting area, I am jammed into a corner and cannot help but overhear the holiday plans of the young lady next to me, talking loudly to her friend. They look very WAG-ish with hair extensions, full slap and beautifully manicured false nails, clutching their mobiles. It's a relief to hear my name called.
It's the delightful trainee from a few weeks ago and this time I scan her name badge to get her name. Alas, the JC deems trainees as unworthy of being named, and her tag just reads 'Trainee'. They really do have a way of de-humanising people, staff as well, it seems.
My frantically busy activity schedule elicits murmers of great satisfaction and I am signed-on for a further two weeks. To break the monotony, I ask about voluntary work. I had assumed this would be a common question and expected an instant and smooth response stating protocol. But my question seems to throw her. She doesn't know, but "Simon might". Oh, God, not Simon. Mr In-Tray. OK, where is Simon, so I might ask the great man myself?
The Great Man has materialised by the front door, obviously doing a stint of door-stepping. He seems human enough. I note that he is sufficiently important to warrant his name emblazoned on his chest. So, the question is asked and there is an extremely long pause.
The pause is sufficiently long enough for me to review what I have asked, just in case "Is it alright to do a bit of voluntary work?" instead mistakenly slipped out as "I'm part of an Al Qaeda terror cell and wondered what opportunities you have in the insurgence sector?" He certainly looks surprised.
The answer is "Well, it depends what you mean by voluntary?" I explain that by voluntary, it means I don't get paid for it, but it would be (a) jolly good for me to do something worthwhile, in between job-hunting, of course, and (b) jolly helpful for the organisation concerned.
As with all things involved with central government, this is not as easy as it seems, and Simon launches off on a lengthy explanation of why voluntary work for the Job Seeker is Not A Good Thing. It all gets terribly complicated and I lose focus halfway through. But by the end of it, my fond (if somewhat rose-tinted) vision of pushing the tea trolley round the hospice ward fades so far into the distance it would need a highly determined Search & Rescue team to retrieve it.
I sometimes wonder if I am the only person who asks questions like these. I'm sure, after I leave, Simon makes a note on my record, along the lines of 'troublemaker'.
A Nepalese gentleman is in his place. Now, local establishments in our vicinity seem to favour employing Nepalese men as security staff. I have always put this down to their benign and totally delightful demeanour to visiting customers, which I suspect hides their terrier-like instincts to rugby tackle any ne'er-do-wells. A cunning disguise, as Baldrick would say.
The Job Centre must have searched high and low for the only grumpy Nepalese man in the county. Either that, or he has been told to drop the Mr Nice Guy and remember that this is a JC, thus full of wastrels, and not Waitrose.
Taking my place in the heaving waiting area, I am jammed into a corner and cannot help but overhear the holiday plans of the young lady next to me, talking loudly to her friend. They look very WAG-ish with hair extensions, full slap and beautifully manicured false nails, clutching their mobiles. It's a relief to hear my name called.
It's the delightful trainee from a few weeks ago and this time I scan her name badge to get her name. Alas, the JC deems trainees as unworthy of being named, and her tag just reads 'Trainee'. They really do have a way of de-humanising people, staff as well, it seems.
My frantically busy activity schedule elicits murmers of great satisfaction and I am signed-on for a further two weeks. To break the monotony, I ask about voluntary work. I had assumed this would be a common question and expected an instant and smooth response stating protocol. But my question seems to throw her. She doesn't know, but "Simon might". Oh, God, not Simon. Mr In-Tray. OK, where is Simon, so I might ask the great man myself?
The Great Man has materialised by the front door, obviously doing a stint of door-stepping. He seems human enough. I note that he is sufficiently important to warrant his name emblazoned on his chest. So, the question is asked and there is an extremely long pause.
The pause is sufficiently long enough for me to review what I have asked, just in case "Is it alright to do a bit of voluntary work?" instead mistakenly slipped out as "I'm part of an Al Qaeda terror cell and wondered what opportunities you have in the insurgence sector?" He certainly looks surprised.
The answer is "Well, it depends what you mean by voluntary?" I explain that by voluntary, it means I don't get paid for it, but it would be (a) jolly good for me to do something worthwhile, in between job-hunting, of course, and (b) jolly helpful for the organisation concerned.
As with all things involved with central government, this is not as easy as it seems, and Simon launches off on a lengthy explanation of why voluntary work for the Job Seeker is Not A Good Thing. It all gets terribly complicated and I lose focus halfway through. But by the end of it, my fond (if somewhat rose-tinted) vision of pushing the tea trolley round the hospice ward fades so far into the distance it would need a highly determined Search & Rescue team to retrieve it.
I sometimes wonder if I am the only person who asks questions like these. I'm sure, after I leave, Simon makes a note on my record, along the lines of 'troublemaker'.
Monday 1 February 2010
Iffishency Rulz
I am early. A whole 15 minutes early.
Daren't risk another ritual humiliation by being a nano-second past my appointment time. I am so early that I have to loiter outside for 10 minutes, trying not to look like a feckless waster. A friend of mine was told off for being too early at his JC once. Seems we really can't win.
The automatic door works! Obviously the JC have been doing their bit to keep automatic door engineers in work. Jolly good.
Eva is back. I try, I really do. She gets a bit waspish when she can't work out from my activity record where I have actually applied for jobs, or where it's research; registering etc., so I make a mental note to use colour coded highlighter pen to clarify in future.
I ask about the SL2JP form and the referral to the specialist agency and this time I really press the point. Even the sluggish nature of the public system must appreciate that six weeks is an excessive length of time to wait. Eva reviews her notes, then without a word swings her way upstairs. I have to assume she's going to track the progress of my application, but for all I know, that's where the staff loos are. I note that Eva wears trainers. I add that to the mental list of 'What I Would Change If I Managed This Job Centre'.
Moments later, Eva is back, this time clutching a green form. Had I filled in one of these? "Err, no, can't recall. Is this to do with the SL2JP form?" I ask. This IS the SL2JP form, I am told. I consider for a moment, then point out that it's blank, which for a form which was processed and in the system seems a little odd. "Yes, I know, you have to fill it in" is the testy reply. And the realisation comes upon me in crashing waves of utter disbelief that my application was never started, was never 'in the system', and had gone precisely nowhere.
Eva avoids my incredulous expression by burying her head in the form to write my name and address. I then have to sign it. That's it. "That's it? That's all you had to do to start the process?" Yes, apparently.
I am a placid person, by nature. I loathe complaining and will eat mediocre food served by surly waiters and still leave a tip. But the extent of such incompetence, and worse, the total lack of acknowledgement of same, pushes me to boiling point. I ask, politely, but firmly, how can it be that six weeks ago you went upstairs and told me it was in Simon's in-tray and would be processed? And how can it be that two weeks ago, I was told that it was 'in the system'? Eva is impassive. But not curious about this systematic failure, and certainly not apologetic.
I am persistent, but polite. "Where precisely has this form been for the last six weeks?" is a reasonable question in the circumstances. It seems it has been in Simon's in-tray, along with all the other blank SL2JP forms. In fact, they come in a tear-off pad. Deep breath. "So, what you are telling me is that this has been sitting (blank) in an in-tray upstairs, and every time I enquired it's progress, this startling fact was missed?" Yes.
My attempts at eye contact are being studiously avoided. "This has wasted six weeks of valuable time" I say, which in the circumstances is quite understated. Eva fixes her eyes on the desk in front of me and says (teeth clenched) "Sorry". It's the kind of apology you force out of your toddler for biting at nursery, when he doesn't mean it at all and only says it because otherwise there's no sweets later.
On the way home from the JC I 'phone My Rock, who I know will be working, unable to answer the mobile, but will have voicemail on. Because, boy oh boy, do I need to vent. There is a toxic mass inside me which needs lancing and this is the best way to do it. I need to say several swear words repeatedly, loudly and with real invective, until I am totally spent.
It takes several minutes.
Daren't risk another ritual humiliation by being a nano-second past my appointment time. I am so early that I have to loiter outside for 10 minutes, trying not to look like a feckless waster. A friend of mine was told off for being too early at his JC once. Seems we really can't win.
The automatic door works! Obviously the JC have been doing their bit to keep automatic door engineers in work. Jolly good.
Eva is back. I try, I really do. She gets a bit waspish when she can't work out from my activity record where I have actually applied for jobs, or where it's research; registering etc., so I make a mental note to use colour coded highlighter pen to clarify in future.
I ask about the SL2JP form and the referral to the specialist agency and this time I really press the point. Even the sluggish nature of the public system must appreciate that six weeks is an excessive length of time to wait. Eva reviews her notes, then without a word swings her way upstairs. I have to assume she's going to track the progress of my application, but for all I know, that's where the staff loos are. I note that Eva wears trainers. I add that to the mental list of 'What I Would Change If I Managed This Job Centre'.
Moments later, Eva is back, this time clutching a green form. Had I filled in one of these? "Err, no, can't recall. Is this to do with the SL2JP form?" I ask. This IS the SL2JP form, I am told. I consider for a moment, then point out that it's blank, which for a form which was processed and in the system seems a little odd. "Yes, I know, you have to fill it in" is the testy reply. And the realisation comes upon me in crashing waves of utter disbelief that my application was never started, was never 'in the system', and had gone precisely nowhere.
Eva avoids my incredulous expression by burying her head in the form to write my name and address. I then have to sign it. That's it. "That's it? That's all you had to do to start the process?" Yes, apparently.
I am a placid person, by nature. I loathe complaining and will eat mediocre food served by surly waiters and still leave a tip. But the extent of such incompetence, and worse, the total lack of acknowledgement of same, pushes me to boiling point. I ask, politely, but firmly, how can it be that six weeks ago you went upstairs and told me it was in Simon's in-tray and would be processed? And how can it be that two weeks ago, I was told that it was 'in the system'? Eva is impassive. But not curious about this systematic failure, and certainly not apologetic.
I am persistent, but polite. "Where precisely has this form been for the last six weeks?" is a reasonable question in the circumstances. It seems it has been in Simon's in-tray, along with all the other blank SL2JP forms. In fact, they come in a tear-off pad. Deep breath. "So, what you are telling me is that this has been sitting (blank) in an in-tray upstairs, and every time I enquired it's progress, this startling fact was missed?" Yes.
My attempts at eye contact are being studiously avoided. "This has wasted six weeks of valuable time" I say, which in the circumstances is quite understated. Eva fixes her eyes on the desk in front of me and says (teeth clenched) "Sorry". It's the kind of apology you force out of your toddler for biting at nursery, when he doesn't mean it at all and only says it because otherwise there's no sweets later.
On the way home from the JC I 'phone My Rock, who I know will be working, unable to answer the mobile, but will have voicemail on. Because, boy oh boy, do I need to vent. There is a toxic mass inside me which needs lancing and this is the best way to do it. I need to say several swear words repeatedly, loudly and with real invective, until I am totally spent.
It takes several minutes.
Tuesday 26 January 2010
You want humiliation with that?
I have seized the day. Grasped the nettle. I am full of purpose.
Job Centre Day has been spent writing tailored speculative applications to 17 various organisations. I am so focussed and determined to get them in the post today I have to hare out of the house, pick my way as fast as I dare through the slushy streets and walk-trot to the JC, falling through the door two minutes past my appointment time. Greeting the lady on door-step duty with a cheery 'Happy New Year' I hand over my clocking-in papers and proceed to the waiting area. Whilst waiting, I take out the last of the envelopes to be hand written and busy myself getting the addresses right.
I sense someone at my side and it's Door Step Lady. "Miss X?" Yes? She clears her throat to make sure her voice carries to the farthest point of the packed waiting area. "You are actually a couple of minutes late for your appointment." I must have looked confused. Door Step Lady helps me out. "We will still see you" (said with the most grudging tone) "but I do have to point out that you were a couple of minutes late." Stunned silence as she turns on her heel and departs. No-one dares meet my eyes. Everyone has theirs cast down to the floor. There is something horribly uncomfortable seeing someone else utterly humiliated, but at the same time, total relief that it wasn't you.
I am stunned. Had I not had my lap full of envelopes and applications I might have leapt up and pursued her back to her post. But I don't, and I suspect that it is a sign of my eroding confidence that I accept this petty, public dressing-down without a word.
Eva is not there (again). I see a different trainee, who, ironically, apologises for keeping me waiting. She is delightful, but only just out of school. So, when she smiles encouragingly and asks "How's the job search going, then?" I feel an utter weariness at having to explain what I have been doing. She notes the 17 speculative applications and tells me I'm being wonderfully pro-active, then approves my JS Allowance for another two weeks.
I ask about the progress of the SL2JP form, the magical golden ticket to the specialist agency. It has been a month since this was raised and I am concerned about the delay. It's all in-hand, apparently, and I must be patient.
On the way home I post all the freshly stamped applications.
I feel totally demotivated. Furious with myself for not having a quiet word with Door Step Lady about how to speak to people like adults. A large Monty Python-esque foot has descended though the clouds and squashed me underfoot, and I'm suddenly very tired.
Job Centre Day has been spent writing tailored speculative applications to 17 various organisations. I am so focussed and determined to get them in the post today I have to hare out of the house, pick my way as fast as I dare through the slushy streets and walk-trot to the JC, falling through the door two minutes past my appointment time. Greeting the lady on door-step duty with a cheery 'Happy New Year' I hand over my clocking-in papers and proceed to the waiting area. Whilst waiting, I take out the last of the envelopes to be hand written and busy myself getting the addresses right.
I sense someone at my side and it's Door Step Lady. "Miss X?" Yes? She clears her throat to make sure her voice carries to the farthest point of the packed waiting area. "You are actually a couple of minutes late for your appointment." I must have looked confused. Door Step Lady helps me out. "We will still see you" (said with the most grudging tone) "but I do have to point out that you were a couple of minutes late." Stunned silence as she turns on her heel and departs. No-one dares meet my eyes. Everyone has theirs cast down to the floor. There is something horribly uncomfortable seeing someone else utterly humiliated, but at the same time, total relief that it wasn't you.
I am stunned. Had I not had my lap full of envelopes and applications I might have leapt up and pursued her back to her post. But I don't, and I suspect that it is a sign of my eroding confidence that I accept this petty, public dressing-down without a word.
Eva is not there (again). I see a different trainee, who, ironically, apologises for keeping me waiting. She is delightful, but only just out of school. So, when she smiles encouragingly and asks "How's the job search going, then?" I feel an utter weariness at having to explain what I have been doing. She notes the 17 speculative applications and tells me I'm being wonderfully pro-active, then approves my JS Allowance for another two weeks.
I ask about the progress of the SL2JP form, the magical golden ticket to the specialist agency. It has been a month since this was raised and I am concerned about the delay. It's all in-hand, apparently, and I must be patient.
On the way home I post all the freshly stamped applications.
I feel totally demotivated. Furious with myself for not having a quiet word with Door Step Lady about how to speak to people like adults. A large Monty Python-esque foot has descended though the clouds and squashed me underfoot, and I'm suddenly very tired.
Friday 22 January 2010
Epiphany
It's almost religious.
I have spent the last two weeks reading. I dread to think what Eva will have to say about this, but I have. And I have learned more about how I will eventually get a job in these two weeks than ever before. Because I have learned that it's like passing your driving test. It's not necessarily the best drivers that get through, it's the ones that know how to pass the test.
Thanks to three reference books* I am inspired. Buoyed up. Full of pep and ready to take on the world. Even Eva.
I trudge through the snow (passing an unobservant man wearing shorts) and fall through the door (still broken), greeted by Man Mountain, who admires my Doc Martens - the only thing the stylish girl-about-town wears in inclement weather - and I learn he is a rugby man. I don't expect he could run very fast, but I bet he would stop a herd of charging rhinos if they dared try.
Eva is not there. I see a lovely young lady, very smiley and encouraging. She doesn't get a word in. I am off, preaching my new-found religion, whilst she sits there (full eye contact - Eva, take note) and smiles in a bemused fashion. I rant on about the books I've read and my whole new philosophy on the job seeking path. "Well, I think you should get a job as an inspirational speaker and coach!" is her response, when I finally shut up. Bless. I note from her badge that she is a trainee. I wonder how long it will be before her good nature and positive approach will be ground down into cynical dust.
It seems I have done enough to warrant another two weeks of JS Allowance. "More than most people I've seen today" she mutters, sotto voce.
*What Colour is Your Parachute?
*The CV Book
*Brilliant Cover Letters
I have spent the last two weeks reading. I dread to think what Eva will have to say about this, but I have. And I have learned more about how I will eventually get a job in these two weeks than ever before. Because I have learned that it's like passing your driving test. It's not necessarily the best drivers that get through, it's the ones that know how to pass the test.
Thanks to three reference books* I am inspired. Buoyed up. Full of pep and ready to take on the world. Even Eva.
I trudge through the snow (passing an unobservant man wearing shorts) and fall through the door (still broken), greeted by Man Mountain, who admires my Doc Martens - the only thing the stylish girl-about-town wears in inclement weather - and I learn he is a rugby man. I don't expect he could run very fast, but I bet he would stop a herd of charging rhinos if they dared try.
Eva is not there. I see a lovely young lady, very smiley and encouraging. She doesn't get a word in. I am off, preaching my new-found religion, whilst she sits there (full eye contact - Eva, take note) and smiles in a bemused fashion. I rant on about the books I've read and my whole new philosophy on the job seeking path. "Well, I think you should get a job as an inspirational speaker and coach!" is her response, when I finally shut up. Bless. I note from her badge that she is a trainee. I wonder how long it will be before her good nature and positive approach will be ground down into cynical dust.
It seems I have done enough to warrant another two weeks of JS Allowance. "More than most people I've seen today" she mutters, sotto voce.
*What Colour is Your Parachute?
*The CV Book
*Brilliant Cover Letters
Tuesday 19 January 2010
This time, with feeling.....
I am a woman on a mission. I am not leaving the JC this time without an SL2JP form. This 'golden ticket' will get me a referral to a specialist placement agency that can give me practical support, plus potentially take me on their books as a candidate. The 20 minute phone call I had with the manager of the agency filled me with hope, but the elusive SL2JP form was the essential next step. "The JC should refer you, ask them for the form." I can do that.
I sit across the desk from Cindy, and having gone through the usual "How's the job search going?" routine, I address her ever prominent ear and ask for the form. There is a pause. "What's that?" she asks. I actually get eye contact for a fleeting second. I explain the purpose of the form and how I was reassured she would know all about it.
Apparently not. She leans over to the next desk and asks Mr Pony Tail if he knows about the form. Frantic conferring. He doesn't know either. They even call across to Man Mountain (on door-step duty) but he doesn't know. (Note to self: Must find out what his role is). Mr P-T then suggests "Simon might know." Simon* must be terribly important, because they lower their voices to a reverential hush when they say his name. Cindy sighs, pushes back her chair, and most reluctantly swings her way upstairs to the Mysterious First Floor. I sit and wait. And wait. There is a lull in human traffic coming through the door and Man Mountain calls across to me "Are you the one making trouble?" He did it with his wolfish smile, so I take it in good spirit and try not to look nervous as I nod.
Eventually, Cindy swings back down, empty handed, but says she knows what the form is (in a tone that suggested she knew all along) and said it would be processed, as requested. Great! I am told the referral was on Simon's desk, would be forwarded directly and the agency would contact me to arrange my appointment.
I stride from the JC, feeling I have achieved, well, something.
I have re-named Cindy. She is hitherto referred to as Eva. As in, Braun. It suits her.
*Name has been changed
I sit across the desk from Cindy, and having gone through the usual "How's the job search going?" routine, I address her ever prominent ear and ask for the form. There is a pause. "What's that?" she asks. I actually get eye contact for a fleeting second. I explain the purpose of the form and how I was reassured she would know all about it.
Apparently not. She leans over to the next desk and asks Mr Pony Tail if he knows about the form. Frantic conferring. He doesn't know either. They even call across to Man Mountain (on door-step duty) but he doesn't know. (Note to self: Must find out what his role is). Mr P-T then suggests "Simon might know." Simon* must be terribly important, because they lower their voices to a reverential hush when they say his name. Cindy sighs, pushes back her chair, and most reluctantly swings her way upstairs to the Mysterious First Floor. I sit and wait. And wait. There is a lull in human traffic coming through the door and Man Mountain calls across to me "Are you the one making trouble?" He did it with his wolfish smile, so I take it in good spirit and try not to look nervous as I nod.
Eventually, Cindy swings back down, empty handed, but says she knows what the form is (in a tone that suggested she knew all along) and said it would be processed, as requested. Great! I am told the referral was on Simon's desk, would be forwarded directly and the agency would contact me to arrange my appointment.
I stride from the JC, feeling I have achieved, well, something.
I have re-named Cindy. She is hitherto referred to as Eva. As in, Braun. It suits her.
*Name has been changed
Ground Zero
First visit to sign-on, so clutching my 'Looking for Work' record of activity, I approach the automatic doors of the JC (still broken, use handle) and enter. To my consternation I am met at the welcoming post by Man Mountain. He bares his teeth and I realise he is smiling. He looks like a kindly wolf. He takes my paperwork and asks me to sit in the waiting area.
On reflection, this is not the dingy hole it first appeared. The decor is almost 80's, it's the poor lighting (energy saving bulbs?) that spreads the air of gloom.
I am buoyed up. Can't wait to meet my Consultant, who I am sure I will bond with: someone I will look upon as a friendly shoulder to lean on. It's pretty jarring hearing your name called in a large, public office, but I'd better get used to it.
"So, how's the job search going?" asks Cindy*. It's amazing how she can inject such a lack of interest into the question. It would be apathetic, were it not tinged with a hint of aggression. I explain to Cindy's ear all the steps I have taken in the 10 days I have been active. I would explain to Cindy's face, except she does not offer me any eye contact whatsoever, in fact, keeps her whole body tilted away from me and faced towards her computer screen. She addresses all her subsequent questions to the computer screen, and I answer to her ear.
I have nine activities on my report, compared to the minimum three required each time, so am confident I am doing my bit. Cindy's only comment to the screen was "Well, perhaps you'll have more to show me next time you come in." What? My colleague attending a different JC was warmly congratulated on his three entries, and practically offered a cup of tea and a hug from his Consultant.
Considering her tender years, I bite back the comment I would really like to make, which is that I have been paying NI contributions for longer than Cindy has actually been alive. So, sit across this side of the desk at my stage in life, sister, then come out with your glib comments. But I don't. I am cowed.
I look across at the next desk. I wish I had that nice man as my Consultant. He has a pony tail and looks like he's kind to animals. Cindy does not appear to have any personality at all. Unless a desert rock has a personality.
*Name has been changed
On reflection, this is not the dingy hole it first appeared. The decor is almost 80's, it's the poor lighting (energy saving bulbs?) that spreads the air of gloom.
I am buoyed up. Can't wait to meet my Consultant, who I am sure I will bond with: someone I will look upon as a friendly shoulder to lean on. It's pretty jarring hearing your name called in a large, public office, but I'd better get used to it.
"So, how's the job search going?" asks Cindy*. It's amazing how she can inject such a lack of interest into the question. It would be apathetic, were it not tinged with a hint of aggression. I explain to Cindy's ear all the steps I have taken in the 10 days I have been active. I would explain to Cindy's face, except she does not offer me any eye contact whatsoever, in fact, keeps her whole body tilted away from me and faced towards her computer screen. She addresses all her subsequent questions to the computer screen, and I answer to her ear.
I have nine activities on my report, compared to the minimum three required each time, so am confident I am doing my bit. Cindy's only comment to the screen was "Well, perhaps you'll have more to show me next time you come in." What? My colleague attending a different JC was warmly congratulated on his three entries, and practically offered a cup of tea and a hug from his Consultant.
Considering her tender years, I bite back the comment I would really like to make, which is that I have been paying NI contributions for longer than Cindy has actually been alive. So, sit across this side of the desk at my stage in life, sister, then come out with your glib comments. But I don't. I am cowed.
I look across at the next desk. I wish I had that nice man as my Consultant. He has a pony tail and looks like he's kind to animals. Cindy does not appear to have any personality at all. Unless a desert rock has a personality.
*Name has been changed
Monday 18 January 2010
The Mysterious First Floor
This time, I present myself with some confidence. After all, I have an appointment. To my great excitement, I am ushered past the desks on the gound floor and directed upstairs. Upstairs? It had never occurred to me there as anything other than the Middle Earth space downstairs.
I wait awhile for my appointment and am royally entertained by the young security guard, who considers himself the warm-up act. Wise-cracking, flirting with the female staff and utterly bored, we strike up a conversation about his role as a roaming guard for various JCs. This one, I am assured, is easy-peasy. You don't want to be in Reading though. Apparently. I marvel that he is permitted to sport the rather flamboyant diamond earings in his ears.
My appointment is with Colin*, a gentle man who seems to have seen it all before. Another very empathetic lady processes my paperwork and asks my circumstances. "Redundant, after almost 16 years with the same company". She smiles sadly. "Still in shock?" she asks, and I am startled to find my eyes suddenly stinging with tears. I am clearly more fragile than I had thought.
Colin is calm, efficient and reassuring. He believes I will have 'no problem' finding alternative employment. Really? I wonder what he bases that on? "No offence, but you can speak English" is the answer.
I sign-on 'proper' in ten days time, then every two weeks thereafter.
For how long?
*name has been changed
I wait awhile for my appointment and am royally entertained by the young security guard, who considers himself the warm-up act. Wise-cracking, flirting with the female staff and utterly bored, we strike up a conversation about his role as a roaming guard for various JCs. This one, I am assured, is easy-peasy. You don't want to be in Reading though. Apparently. I marvel that he is permitted to sport the rather flamboyant diamond earings in his ears.
My appointment is with Colin*, a gentle man who seems to have seen it all before. Another very empathetic lady processes my paperwork and asks my circumstances. "Redundant, after almost 16 years with the same company". She smiles sadly. "Still in shock?" she asks, and I am startled to find my eyes suddenly stinging with tears. I am clearly more fragile than I had thought.
Colin is calm, efficient and reassuring. He believes I will have 'no problem' finding alternative employment. Really? I wonder what he bases that on? "No offence, but you can speak English" is the answer.
I sign-on 'proper' in ten days time, then every two weeks thereafter.
For how long?
*name has been changed
Into the System
He was right. Forty-five minutes to be precise. To a very nice young lady with a Livepool accent who took me through a vast number of questions. The first one was "Do you want to apply for Job Seekers Allowance?" I said, "I don't know, what's the criteria?" Well, that's not the way it's done. You have to go through the application process, then someone, somewhere makes the decision as to whether you qualify.
Same with Council Tax. "Did I want to apply for a Council Tax rebate?" I said, "I don't know, I suspect I have too much in savings. What's the criteria?" If, at this stage, she had been permitted to say that if I had more than £16k in savings, then don't bother, it would have saved both of us an enormous amount of time.
As it was, I came off the phone, having divulged more personal information to the charming Liverpudlian than I ever have to my gynaecologist, but with a Hot Date with the Job Centre for two days hence.
I can't wait to find out what happens there, beyond the welcoming committee.
Same with Council Tax. "Did I want to apply for a Council Tax rebate?" I said, "I don't know, I suspect I have too much in savings. What's the criteria?" If, at this stage, she had been permitted to say that if I had more than £16k in savings, then don't bother, it would have saved both of us an enormous amount of time.
As it was, I came off the phone, having divulged more personal information to the charming Liverpudlian than I ever have to my gynaecologist, but with a Hot Date with the Job Centre for two days hence.
I can't wait to find out what happens there, beyond the welcoming committee.
Sunday 17 January 2010
Where's the Executive Entrance?
I can do this. I am a confident, experienced, professional. Just find the right door, walk through and find out what this is all about.
There's only one door (surely not?) and it seems the masses use it. Having swept, head high, through the huddle of stereotypical youths lurking at the entrance, I wait for the automatic door to swing open. It doesn't. It is clearly broken. Fine.
I remember looking through the windows of a Job Centre many years ago. It seemed a bright, airy place with row upon row of jobs posted up, and plentiful, helpful JC staff on hand to assist you in your job search.
Instead, I find myself in a dingy, rather depressing space with what looks like a thirteen-year-old as the welcoming committee. He is clearly still learning to shave, but I was glad to see his mother had sent him out with a vest on. Alongside my teenage host is a man mountain. He must be seven feet tall, easily as wide, and with a neck as thick as my waist. He says nothing, but sits calmly next to the young man and observes. I am agog as to his purpose.
"I've never done this before" I manage, before Junior whips out a (badly) photocopied list of telephone numbers and asks, "Do you want to claim benefits?"
Do I? I don't think so. How would I know? I say, "I don't think so" and he looks at rather a loss. This is clearly off-script. He sees my uncertainty as an opportunity and says "Well, you might as well. Call this number, it'll take about 40 minutes so make sure you use your land line." OK. Pause. "Will you be looking for another job?" The question takes me by surprise. Of course I'm looking for another job, this is why I'm there. I brighten at the prospect of sitting down with a consultant to discuss my options and any opportunities they have filed. Instead, he circles a website address on the badly photocopied list and says "It's all self service now. Go onto the internet and look for jobs at this site." My jaw slackens with disbelief.
I don't even get past first base. I am door-stepped. My first visit to the JC, for which I had steeled myself for several days, lasted all of 90 seconds. The hallowed ground of staffed desks beyond the entrance (what mysterious purpose do they have, I wonder?) remains a mystery for the time being. I take my leave. The man mountain has not uttered a word, nor has his expression changed. His mysterious purpose is also, as yet, undiscovered.
Off balance? You bet. I am so far out of my comfort zone it may take me a lifetime to find my way back. Perhaps I never will.
There's only one door (surely not?) and it seems the masses use it. Having swept, head high, through the huddle of stereotypical youths lurking at the entrance, I wait for the automatic door to swing open. It doesn't. It is clearly broken. Fine.
I remember looking through the windows of a Job Centre many years ago. It seemed a bright, airy place with row upon row of jobs posted up, and plentiful, helpful JC staff on hand to assist you in your job search.
Instead, I find myself in a dingy, rather depressing space with what looks like a thirteen-year-old as the welcoming committee. He is clearly still learning to shave, but I was glad to see his mother had sent him out with a vest on. Alongside my teenage host is a man mountain. He must be seven feet tall, easily as wide, and with a neck as thick as my waist. He says nothing, but sits calmly next to the young man and observes. I am agog as to his purpose.
"I've never done this before" I manage, before Junior whips out a (badly) photocopied list of telephone numbers and asks, "Do you want to claim benefits?"
Do I? I don't think so. How would I know? I say, "I don't think so" and he looks at rather a loss. This is clearly off-script. He sees my uncertainty as an opportunity and says "Well, you might as well. Call this number, it'll take about 40 minutes so make sure you use your land line." OK. Pause. "Will you be looking for another job?" The question takes me by surprise. Of course I'm looking for another job, this is why I'm there. I brighten at the prospect of sitting down with a consultant to discuss my options and any opportunities they have filed. Instead, he circles a website address on the badly photocopied list and says "It's all self service now. Go onto the internet and look for jobs at this site." My jaw slackens with disbelief.
I don't even get past first base. I am door-stepped. My first visit to the JC, for which I had steeled myself for several days, lasted all of 90 seconds. The hallowed ground of staffed desks beyond the entrance (what mysterious purpose do they have, I wonder?) remains a mystery for the time being. I take my leave. The man mountain has not uttered a word, nor has his expression changed. His mysterious purpose is also, as yet, undiscovered.
Off balance? You bet. I am so far out of my comfort zone it may take me a lifetime to find my way back. Perhaps I never will.
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