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.