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.