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.