I am deeply disappointed with Man Mountain and tell him so. He never did make it to the local ground for the final home game of the season and missed a fabulously joyous match-end pitch invasion. I impart this news and he looks somewhat shamefaced.
Bouncing along to the waiting area, it's remarkable how I feel so familiar with this place. The punters in the waiting area look like they've already given up, though I am startled when one woman stands up to take her turn and positively waddles across the floor. She looks like she's days away from giving birth, and I catch myself gaping. (A most unattractive look). Please tell me she is not presenting herself as actively looking for work, I simply don't believe it.
There's only two on again today and I settle down for a long wait. I am reading a thoroughly worthy, if somewhat dry, self-help book* and figure I can plough though a chapter whilst I wait for either Adorable Emma, or Crumpled Brenda, as those are today's choices. I note that Brenda is wearing the same outfit again today. In fact, when I think about it, it's the same outfit every time I see her. Now, either that's her 'Monday' outfit, or she's like The Men In Black who only have one outfit - 'the last suit they'll ever wear'. Except in her case it's a crumpled linen smock and truly hideous flappy trousers.
Out of left field I see a flash of Kate and she calls my name in a sort of conspiritorial way, which intrigues me. I traipse into her office after her and she confesses she saw me waiting and grabbed my paperwork so she could interview me. I have jumped the queue in a most un-British fashion and feel the eyes of the others still waiting boring into my back, resentfully.
Kate is impatient to ask me what I thought of my training session with Aaron, as opposed the other DWP-sponsored one I have recently been on. She is truly interested in finding out which company offers the better support to redundant execs, as it turns out they are both bombarding her with marketing material in the hope of becoming the premier consultancy on the list. Which, I assume, equals a nice steady little earner. Kate confesses she has not had time to read all the material and really wants my opinion.
It's an extraordinary moment, in that I sense a sudden and palpable shift of power. I feel odd for a moment before I realise why. I am being consulted. I am being asked for my professional opinion about a business matter and someone really, really wants to know what I think. They may even base a commercial decision on what I say. I used to do this. A lot. But it's been a long time and it stirs something deep within: a reminder of the corporate world and a sense of self assurance that I have not felt in a long time. And not once within the confines of the DWP.
We have an animated discussion about the various recruitment professionals I have experienced, whether referred by them, or not, and Kate listens with great interest, asking pertinent and intelligent questions. Would I mind, she asks, e-mailing her later this week (after my final external consultation), and tell her which company offers the better programme?
She despatches the usual admin with ferocious efficiency, finishing with dashing out her e-mail address and direct line for me to get back to her later in the week. Our conversation finishes on a high, with a prediction that I must land a decent job soon, surely. "You watch," she says with real belief, "you'll land a job soon, and it'll be a bloody good one." A brief pause, whilst she glances nervously at the open office door. " 'Scuse my French".
*The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People
Monday 26 April 2010
Tuesday 20 April 2010
A Friday Odyssey
Today is an oddity.
It's not my usual signing-on day, yet here I am, leaping up the steps to the JC. Why? Because the referral to the latest external career specialist has resulted in a 2-hour coaching session, held at the JC. This is a one-to-one exercise and we have been promised a private office. I do hope so. Bearing my professional soul in the middle of the zoo that is the ground floor does not appeal.
The young security guard flashes a welcoming smile at me and I'm not sure if I am more dazzled by his teeth or his diamond earrings. Haven't seen him in quite a while. He's quite a charmer and I suspect he prefers the company of the more fragrant female staff on The Mysterious First Floor.
Having ascertained that my Career Coach has yet to arrive (by bellowing my name and my business across the floor to Crumpled Brenda), the Be-jeweled One directs me to the usual waiting area.
It's exceptionally quiet. Perhaps the appointments are deliberately wound down on a Friday afternoon. It's quiet enough that I can overhear the conversation between Adorable Emma and another JC advisor. I love the way they call us punters 'customers'. The last time I experienced such surreal customer service was in the early days of NTL.
I wait. And wait. My guy is late. A 'phone rings and rings. No-one answers it. I have skimmed all the newspapers and am now bored. My mobile shows a voicemail from the Consultant. His garbled message confirms he is in one of those wading-through-treacle car journeys that usually only happen in nightmares. Or Friday afternoons, if you take the wrong turning off the A31.
Man Mountain spots me waiting and looks puzzled. It's worrying when the security staff know what day you usually come in. I try to look poised and unconcerned, very much like when you know you've been stood-up.
Poor Aaron* falls though the door, sweating and mortified about being 30 minutes late. He apologises profusely and says that he tried ringing the JC so they could pass a message onto me but that no-one answered the 'phone. Funny, that.
The two hours I spend with Aaron are the most constructive I have experienced within the confines of the JC. The coaching is all about hitting-the-ground-running after redundancy and how to get your campaign together, rather than passively joining the flow of the masses. Why, I ask, is this not available in the first few weeks then? He shakes his head and says he is tired of telling the DWP that they should refer ALL redundant execs within the first few weeks, but no-one seems to listen. Here I am, five months into unemployment hell and only now am I really getting to hear how to go about campaigning effectively. The only reason I am here is from networking. A contact of a contact went on one of their sessions and raved about it. It had never been suggested by anyone at my JC, even though they clearly have a partner agreement in place with them. What is going on? Why is this all such a big secret? Is it really about saving money (I appreciate the DWP fund these sessions), or is it mere incompetence? Apathy? It makes my blood boil that redundant execs are having to rely on the Chinese whispers of the networking system to access these services.
After 90 minutes I am done-in. It's pretty intense and we spend the last 30 minutes re-capping. I take my leave of Aaron and am already mentally compiling a list of contacts to inform about this company and what they offer.
Man Mountain and Crumpled Brenda are doing their usual double-act at the door, which I note is broken again. I do hope they don't spend more money getting it fixed. I would hate them to have to dip into the Essential Leaflet Fund. Goodness, where would we be then?
*Name has been changed
It's not my usual signing-on day, yet here I am, leaping up the steps to the JC. Why? Because the referral to the latest external career specialist has resulted in a 2-hour coaching session, held at the JC. This is a one-to-one exercise and we have been promised a private office. I do hope so. Bearing my professional soul in the middle of the zoo that is the ground floor does not appeal.
The young security guard flashes a welcoming smile at me and I'm not sure if I am more dazzled by his teeth or his diamond earrings. Haven't seen him in quite a while. He's quite a charmer and I suspect he prefers the company of the more fragrant female staff on The Mysterious First Floor.
Having ascertained that my Career Coach has yet to arrive (by bellowing my name and my business across the floor to Crumpled Brenda), the Be-jeweled One directs me to the usual waiting area.
It's exceptionally quiet. Perhaps the appointments are deliberately wound down on a Friday afternoon. It's quiet enough that I can overhear the conversation between Adorable Emma and another JC advisor. I love the way they call us punters 'customers'. The last time I experienced such surreal customer service was in the early days of NTL.
I wait. And wait. My guy is late. A 'phone rings and rings. No-one answers it. I have skimmed all the newspapers and am now bored. My mobile shows a voicemail from the Consultant. His garbled message confirms he is in one of those wading-through-treacle car journeys that usually only happen in nightmares. Or Friday afternoons, if you take the wrong turning off the A31.
Man Mountain spots me waiting and looks puzzled. It's worrying when the security staff know what day you usually come in. I try to look poised and unconcerned, very much like when you know you've been stood-up.
Poor Aaron* falls though the door, sweating and mortified about being 30 minutes late. He apologises profusely and says that he tried ringing the JC so they could pass a message onto me but that no-one answered the 'phone. Funny, that.
The two hours I spend with Aaron are the most constructive I have experienced within the confines of the JC. The coaching is all about hitting-the-ground-running after redundancy and how to get your campaign together, rather than passively joining the flow of the masses. Why, I ask, is this not available in the first few weeks then? He shakes his head and says he is tired of telling the DWP that they should refer ALL redundant execs within the first few weeks, but no-one seems to listen. Here I am, five months into unemployment hell and only now am I really getting to hear how to go about campaigning effectively. The only reason I am here is from networking. A contact of a contact went on one of their sessions and raved about it. It had never been suggested by anyone at my JC, even though they clearly have a partner agreement in place with them. What is going on? Why is this all such a big secret? Is it really about saving money (I appreciate the DWP fund these sessions), or is it mere incompetence? Apathy? It makes my blood boil that redundant execs are having to rely on the Chinese whispers of the networking system to access these services.
After 90 minutes I am done-in. It's pretty intense and we spend the last 30 minutes re-capping. I take my leave of Aaron and am already mentally compiling a list of contacts to inform about this company and what they offer.
Man Mountain and Crumpled Brenda are doing their usual double-act at the door, which I note is broken again. I do hope they don't spend more money getting it fixed. I would hate them to have to dip into the Essential Leaflet Fund. Goodness, where would we be then?
*Name has been changed
Friday 16 April 2010
Gissa Job
I positively bound up the JC steps today. There is no-one on meet-and-greet, so I wait at the desk and idly scan the reception area. The pillar beside me has two signs on it, positioned directly in line-of-sight of those on door-step duty. One says 'Complaints' the other 'Secret Shopper'. I have time to ponder the meaning of these signs, then it dawns on me that they are visual reminders for the welcoming committee. Just then, Man Mountain appears, apologising for keeping me waiting.
Is it true, I ask, that there are Secret Shoppers, tasked with visiting the JC as punters (sorry, customers) to test the effectiveness of this beloved DWP outpost? Man Mountain confirms that indeed there are such visitors. I am momentarily impressed at the idea of subversives testing their services, until he puts me right, confirming the only thing they are looking for is that staff hand out the right leaflets. Oh, that's OK then. I would hate to not have the correct leaflets, they're so incredibly useful for redundant execs. Taxpayers can rest easy in their beds knowing that the priorities are being attended to. How, I enquire, do I get appointed as one of these shoppers? I'm not doing much at the moment and I could submit a dazzling critique on leaflets. Alas, it seems the Secret Shoppers are employed by an outside agency, so I abandon that idea as my next career move and move into the waiting area.
It's another long one. I don't recognise anyone, again. This is quite alarming. Why am I so unemployable? What is wrong with me? They seem short staffed again and it's over 30 minutes before a harassed-looking Kate calls me into the side office, apologising for the wait. She looks dishevelled and wears the standard JC crumpled look. Some of the frontline staff carry this look to quite impressive lengths: Brenda, in particular, excels and I keep meaning to advise her to avoid linen. It makes me want to iron her, clothes and all.
Kate is lovely, but I feel like I'm the one doing the support. My 'what I did today' chart passes all benchmarks and at the end of reviewing it, and me, she looks across and almost wails "I can't understand why you can't get a job!". Well, that's two of us, so I can only shake my head in sympathy which seems to make her feel a bit better.
To change the subject I ask for a further travel expenses form. I have secured a second interview for a role (a first!) and though I don't have high hopes for the job, I might as well claim the rail fare back. Taking the opportunity, I ask how long the claims take to be processed and paid. "Oh, months" she says, so casually that I think I've misheard. Apparently, the backlog is so long that they are looking at paying claims submitted in March around July sometime. Such is the surreal world of the DWP.
The next request is for a referral to a coaching seminar given by a company I have heard about via networking. I am determined to get as many of these referrals as possible. If these blighters are cutting me off at 6 months, I need to get my money's worth now. Kate considers this request, then taps away. Then pauses and goes to The Mysterious First Floor to consult. Ten minutes later, she's back, clutching two different forms. Yes, they can refer me. I wait for the 'but' that is forming on her lips as we speak. But she doesn't know how to facilitate this and neither did the person she went to consult.
Recognising one of the forms as the elusive SL2JP form, I suggest I will be able to advise her, and quickly recommend we fill in that one, as the other does not seem relevant. Kate confides that she got this job after visiting the JC as a 'customer' for a while, before they asked her to join them. She's the second member of staff who has told me this tale, so I ask Kate if there are any jobs going. I say that I am sure I could do this. I seem to be more familiar with their bureaucracy than they are, but she says "Oh, I know you could do this job, but you wouldn't want to, for the money". She has a point.
Having gained my referral, I feel I have achieved all that can realistically be achieved and take my leave.
As I pass the desks that have dedicated phone lines directly to the benefits offices, I note there is a queue, mostly consisting of teenage parents with toddlers in tow, which is quite depressing.
Man Mountain is standing with Crumpled Brenda as I take my leave. He asks if I am planning to see the local football team at the weekend. Seems we are both fairweather fans. He might be rather suprised at me on the terraces. I carry about an alter ego called 'Chardonnay' and I lustily point out that the refs' parents don't seem to be married.
Is it true, I ask, that there are Secret Shoppers, tasked with visiting the JC as punters (sorry, customers) to test the effectiveness of this beloved DWP outpost? Man Mountain confirms that indeed there are such visitors. I am momentarily impressed at the idea of subversives testing their services, until he puts me right, confirming the only thing they are looking for is that staff hand out the right leaflets. Oh, that's OK then. I would hate to not have the correct leaflets, they're so incredibly useful for redundant execs. Taxpayers can rest easy in their beds knowing that the priorities are being attended to. How, I enquire, do I get appointed as one of these shoppers? I'm not doing much at the moment and I could submit a dazzling critique on leaflets. Alas, it seems the Secret Shoppers are employed by an outside agency, so I abandon that idea as my next career move and move into the waiting area.
It's another long one. I don't recognise anyone, again. This is quite alarming. Why am I so unemployable? What is wrong with me? They seem short staffed again and it's over 30 minutes before a harassed-looking Kate calls me into the side office, apologising for the wait. She looks dishevelled and wears the standard JC crumpled look. Some of the frontline staff carry this look to quite impressive lengths: Brenda, in particular, excels and I keep meaning to advise her to avoid linen. It makes me want to iron her, clothes and all.
Kate is lovely, but I feel like I'm the one doing the support. My 'what I did today' chart passes all benchmarks and at the end of reviewing it, and me, she looks across and almost wails "I can't understand why you can't get a job!". Well, that's two of us, so I can only shake my head in sympathy which seems to make her feel a bit better.
To change the subject I ask for a further travel expenses form. I have secured a second interview for a role (a first!) and though I don't have high hopes for the job, I might as well claim the rail fare back. Taking the opportunity, I ask how long the claims take to be processed and paid. "Oh, months" she says, so casually that I think I've misheard. Apparently, the backlog is so long that they are looking at paying claims submitted in March around July sometime. Such is the surreal world of the DWP.
The next request is for a referral to a coaching seminar given by a company I have heard about via networking. I am determined to get as many of these referrals as possible. If these blighters are cutting me off at 6 months, I need to get my money's worth now. Kate considers this request, then taps away. Then pauses and goes to The Mysterious First Floor to consult. Ten minutes later, she's back, clutching two different forms. Yes, they can refer me. I wait for the 'but' that is forming on her lips as we speak. But she doesn't know how to facilitate this and neither did the person she went to consult.
Recognising one of the forms as the elusive SL2JP form, I suggest I will be able to advise her, and quickly recommend we fill in that one, as the other does not seem relevant. Kate confides that she got this job after visiting the JC as a 'customer' for a while, before they asked her to join them. She's the second member of staff who has told me this tale, so I ask Kate if there are any jobs going. I say that I am sure I could do this. I seem to be more familiar with their bureaucracy than they are, but she says "Oh, I know you could do this job, but you wouldn't want to, for the money". She has a point.
Having gained my referral, I feel I have achieved all that can realistically be achieved and take my leave.
As I pass the desks that have dedicated phone lines directly to the benefits offices, I note there is a queue, mostly consisting of teenage parents with toddlers in tow, which is quite depressing.
Man Mountain is standing with Crumpled Brenda as I take my leave. He asks if I am planning to see the local football team at the weekend. Seems we are both fairweather fans. He might be rather suprised at me on the terraces. I carry about an alter ego called 'Chardonnay' and I lustily point out that the refs' parents don't seem to be married.
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