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.

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.

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

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'.

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.