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.