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.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
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
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