God, I am so bored with this.
It's week 2 of the six-week challenge and I'm so, so bored with coming back here, with nothing much new to say and no real point in me saying it, anyway. However, the sun is shining, so I greet Man Mountain with a cheery smile. He is ruing time spent in the sun over the weekend, as he is nursing a rather pink pate. Apparently, he works as an occasional steward at sports fixtures and went on duty without sufficient lotion slapped on his forehead. Too late to suggest he should have worn a cap, so I keep my lips buttoned and move into the waiting area.
Heaving. Again. Where does everybody come from? All the desks are manned and busy and I think I spy a new consultant, so squint to see better. It's not a new consultant. It's Brenda. But (and regular readers will know, this is a jaw-dropping moment) she is NOT wearing her Monday outfit. Fot the first time in 6 months! Perhaps it has finally worn out? It's possible.
On one hand I am disappointed. With all the fabulous summer colours available, she could have gone mad with cerise or teal. But, no. It's black. Gok would say "No girlfriend, not with your colouring!" but I decide that charity is the order of the day and credit should be given for stepping outside of her comfort zone. Or should that be crumple zone?
Kate is rushing about, as usual, but eventually calls my name to follow her into her office, and without bothering to lower her voice too much, adds "Come in for your weekly rant". Said with a smile.
So, across the desk again. But at least it's with my most favourite JC person, which makes it much more bearable. "OK, off you go", says Kate and I reel off the latest - vacancies where I was being considered, but have now been rejected. New opportunities that I am currently being considered for. Speculative applications made. Networking meetings I have attended. Latest hot tips from the Job Seeker's Underground. Oh, and I've co-founded a Job Club.
I pause to consider what I've left out and Kate suddenly realises she's been listening so attentively, she hasn't entered a single detail on the ghastly system. (The system is like a baby bird, it needs constant feeding). So, a quick re-cap of the highlights and we're done. Just one tiny thing more. My next (additional) appointment is supposed to be on the coming Monday, which is a Bank Holiday. So I ask Kate if she will make a date for the Tuesday instead? "Forget it", she says, "it's a Bank Holiday". I know, but won't the DWP Monster realise I have 'missed' a week and cut me off at the pass?
"Forget it", she repeats. "Have a day off. On me".
Monday 31 May 2010
Friday 21 May 2010
You Couldn't Make It Up
I'm feeling slightly irritated this morning.
It's the first of my additional JC appointments, the 20-minute consultation to see 'how they can help me more'. That's all very welcome, but I have a full morning scheduled, including conversations with recruiters, networking and other constructive activities planned. However, the DWP has decreed, and you never know, there might be something I can glean from this meeting.
The Bejewelled One ticks me off the list and directs me to the usual waiting area. I know I am seeing Kate (thank you, thank you) at 11am so am not fazed by the heaving mass of applicants waiting to sign-on.
I wait. And wait. Then I wait some more. Brenda lollops past and I see she is wearing her Monday outfit. I so want to be her personal shopper. I could be her Gok.
I see Kate bustling about, and long after my appointment time, I see her taking 'standard' customers into her office, which puzzles me. This is a new (much heralded) system of dedicated appointments. I note she is studiously avoiding my eye. This is worrying. Finally, over 30 minutes late, she reluctantly calls my name.
We settle in her office and the reason for her discomfort becomes apparent. "I know you've been waiting over half-an-hour, Miss X, but I really have nothing to say to you". I exercise what us sales pros call the 'silence technique', encouraging Kate to elaborate. She is acutely embarrassed. "This is the first day for this new system," she explains "and I don't know what I can say to you. These additional appointments are assumed to be for claimants who either don't want to work, or are incapable of knowing how to go about it." I would like a polaroid of my face. Right now, please.
Kate goes on to confirm that I know more about getting myself back into work than either she, or the DWP at large could know. I suspect this is true, as I have been sharing my ideas and experiences with Kate (who is clearly an intelligent and compassionate woman) and she absorbs all the information like a sponge, as it adds to her own understanding of the dark world of the redundant exec.
Our eyes meet and I sense the agony in hers. Taking a deep breath, I say that I expect that the wretched system demands some information to be fed into it about our meeting, so what can I tell her that will satisfy the DWP that she has diligently advised me today? Her relief is huge and she says to just chat away at what I've been doing, so I just gabble on, relating my latest triumphs and catastrophes. This turns into quite a rant about unprofessional recruiters and being treated like vermin and poor Kate is visibly shocked. I assure her that not only am I not exaggerating, but my experience has been confirmed many times over by my fellow unemployed execs.
After a 10 minute monologue, I realise that I am spent. Kate smiles sympathetically and says that as I must attend these pointless appointments with her, I should consider them free Reiki sessions. I concede that most therapists charge £35 a pop and blasting off at her helped me to purge of some of the frustrations of the last week, so she may have a point. We share a conspiratorial smile.
Parting friends, Kate agrees that I no longer have to fill in the hideously patronising 'What I Did Today' form, which is a massive relief and not for the first time, I could kiss her.
I sail out of the door, mentally calculating how much serious job-hunting time I have squandered on today's charade. I give up. I always hated party games anyway. The only one I ever won was 'Dead Bears' and there's not a lot of call for that in the local sits vac.
It's the first of my additional JC appointments, the 20-minute consultation to see 'how they can help me more'. That's all very welcome, but I have a full morning scheduled, including conversations with recruiters, networking and other constructive activities planned. However, the DWP has decreed, and you never know, there might be something I can glean from this meeting.
The Bejewelled One ticks me off the list and directs me to the usual waiting area. I know I am seeing Kate (thank you, thank you) at 11am so am not fazed by the heaving mass of applicants waiting to sign-on.
I wait. And wait. Then I wait some more. Brenda lollops past and I see she is wearing her Monday outfit. I so want to be her personal shopper. I could be her Gok.
I see Kate bustling about, and long after my appointment time, I see her taking 'standard' customers into her office, which puzzles me. This is a new (much heralded) system of dedicated appointments. I note she is studiously avoiding my eye. This is worrying. Finally, over 30 minutes late, she reluctantly calls my name.
We settle in her office and the reason for her discomfort becomes apparent. "I know you've been waiting over half-an-hour, Miss X, but I really have nothing to say to you". I exercise what us sales pros call the 'silence technique', encouraging Kate to elaborate. She is acutely embarrassed. "This is the first day for this new system," she explains "and I don't know what I can say to you. These additional appointments are assumed to be for claimants who either don't want to work, or are incapable of knowing how to go about it." I would like a polaroid of my face. Right now, please.
Kate goes on to confirm that I know more about getting myself back into work than either she, or the DWP at large could know. I suspect this is true, as I have been sharing my ideas and experiences with Kate (who is clearly an intelligent and compassionate woman) and she absorbs all the information like a sponge, as it adds to her own understanding of the dark world of the redundant exec.
Our eyes meet and I sense the agony in hers. Taking a deep breath, I say that I expect that the wretched system demands some information to be fed into it about our meeting, so what can I tell her that will satisfy the DWP that she has diligently advised me today? Her relief is huge and she says to just chat away at what I've been doing, so I just gabble on, relating my latest triumphs and catastrophes. This turns into quite a rant about unprofessional recruiters and being treated like vermin and poor Kate is visibly shocked. I assure her that not only am I not exaggerating, but my experience has been confirmed many times over by my fellow unemployed execs.
After a 10 minute monologue, I realise that I am spent. Kate smiles sympathetically and says that as I must attend these pointless appointments with her, I should consider them free Reiki sessions. I concede that most therapists charge £35 a pop and blasting off at her helped me to purge of some of the frustrations of the last week, so she may have a point. We share a conspiratorial smile.
Parting friends, Kate agrees that I no longer have to fill in the hideously patronising 'What I Did Today' form, which is a massive relief and not for the first time, I could kiss her.
I sail out of the door, mentally calculating how much serious job-hunting time I have squandered on today's charade. I give up. I always hated party games anyway. The only one I ever won was 'Dead Bears' and there's not a lot of call for that in the local sits vac.
Sunday 16 May 2010
Stage 3
Armed with my updated breeze block, I take the steps to the JC two-at-a-time and push open the (surprise!) broken entrance door. The Bejewelled One and Mr In-Tray have a brief power-struggle, racing to find my details and check me off first (clearly some testosterone issues going on there).
The Mysterious First Floor used to hold a mystical fascination for me, but today it just represents the abject waste of the last 6 months. Feeling a little reflective, I take my seat and wait for Alison. She and I did not exactly hit it off last time and I decide I don't want any hassle today. Whilst psyching myself into a positive mindset, I see Man Mountain blunder towards me. He is clearly security for the Mysterious First Floor today and checks me off his customer list. "Oh, Stage 3!" he blurts out, looking surprised. "I hadn't realised you'd been coming here that long. Doesn't time fly?" I give him what I consider a restrained look, under the circumstances, and reply that it feels like a very long time indeed, thanks very much.
It seems that Alison has also decided she doesn't want any hassle today, and my warm greeting is reciprocated. We settle down to review the JS Agreement which now becomes a bit of a moot point, as my JS Allowance has just terminated. Six months and you're out, so-to-speak.
I do continue to get my NI contributions paid though, and they will still sign the precious ABI1 form, that golden ticket to the mortgage insurance being paid. The downside is I still need to come in and continue to sign-on. OK, add that to the pile of crap I am currently dealing with and it seems small beer.
As we're at 6 months, I have to add another job title I am prepared to consider. This is DWP bureaucracy at it's best. I have to choose from a list of job types, and we can't use derivatives of the main ones already selected. This doesn't leave much. Her cursor runs up and down the list and hovers over the 'Ts'. "Taxi Driver" I say, spotting it in the list. Well, why not? It's as likely as anything else.
Then the whammy. As this is my 6-month review, I now need to make additional visits to the JC over the next 6 weeks, so that I attend every week. Why, I ask? Alison does a good job of keeping a straight face whilst she confirms this is to see if there's anything else they can do to help me. So, this in-between interview will be more than just signing-on? Yes, I am assured, this is a proper 20-minute interview with looking up jobs and, well, anything else. Excellent.
I ask about Work Trials, something I heard about via networking. Alison looks evasive, then confirms that's really only for warehouse staff. OK, where's the broom? No, seriously, I can sweep-up as well as anyone, and after a shift on the warehouse floor, the MD will spy my talents, sweep me up to the boardroom and hand me a key to the executive bathroom. Well, you never know.
After a moments thought, Alison agrees to pop upstairs to see God and see if there are any partnership agreements in place with local employers that would better suit me. Whilst I am waiting, Man Mountain lumbers past and I stop him to ask about the Stage 3 reference. He looks sheepish and admits he shouldn't have told me. I say that in oncological terms, I am in a pretty dire situation, and can he tell me if there's a Stage 5? Or am I terminal? He declines to answer.
Alison returns saying that if I can find a local company that will enter into a DWP Work Trial, then they'll do the paperwork. It really is self-serve all the way.
I'm also worth £1,000 to any company that takes me on, due to the Recruitment Subsidy scheme. Alison hands me a sheaf of photocopied leaflets for me to enclose with any CVs or applications I send off. Over my rapidly cooling body, I think. Bad enough having to go through the application mincer, without flashing a big red flag that shouts 'Loser'.
I ask Alison about Stages 4 onwards. She looks grim and confirms that I really, really, really don't want to be around for the 18 month review. No, you're right, I don't. We part amicably and I fervently hope I never see her again.
Man Mountain is back downstairs with Mr In-Tray. I call a cheery goodbye and the big man says, mock serious, that he doesn't want me back here for the 9-months review. I couldn't agree more and concede that I am a total disgrace and can't believe I have got this far in the hall of shame. Man Mountain throws back his head and belly laughs (and he's got the equipment for it) and even Mr In-Tray manages a watery smile.
It's a small victory.
The Mysterious First Floor used to hold a mystical fascination for me, but today it just represents the abject waste of the last 6 months. Feeling a little reflective, I take my seat and wait for Alison. She and I did not exactly hit it off last time and I decide I don't want any hassle today. Whilst psyching myself into a positive mindset, I see Man Mountain blunder towards me. He is clearly security for the Mysterious First Floor today and checks me off his customer list. "Oh, Stage 3!" he blurts out, looking surprised. "I hadn't realised you'd been coming here that long. Doesn't time fly?" I give him what I consider a restrained look, under the circumstances, and reply that it feels like a very long time indeed, thanks very much.
It seems that Alison has also decided she doesn't want any hassle today, and my warm greeting is reciprocated. We settle down to review the JS Agreement which now becomes a bit of a moot point, as my JS Allowance has just terminated. Six months and you're out, so-to-speak.
I do continue to get my NI contributions paid though, and they will still sign the precious ABI1 form, that golden ticket to the mortgage insurance being paid. The downside is I still need to come in and continue to sign-on. OK, add that to the pile of crap I am currently dealing with and it seems small beer.
As we're at 6 months, I have to add another job title I am prepared to consider. This is DWP bureaucracy at it's best. I have to choose from a list of job types, and we can't use derivatives of the main ones already selected. This doesn't leave much. Her cursor runs up and down the list and hovers over the 'Ts'. "Taxi Driver" I say, spotting it in the list. Well, why not? It's as likely as anything else.
Then the whammy. As this is my 6-month review, I now need to make additional visits to the JC over the next 6 weeks, so that I attend every week. Why, I ask? Alison does a good job of keeping a straight face whilst she confirms this is to see if there's anything else they can do to help me. So, this in-between interview will be more than just signing-on? Yes, I am assured, this is a proper 20-minute interview with looking up jobs and, well, anything else. Excellent.
I ask about Work Trials, something I heard about via networking. Alison looks evasive, then confirms that's really only for warehouse staff. OK, where's the broom? No, seriously, I can sweep-up as well as anyone, and after a shift on the warehouse floor, the MD will spy my talents, sweep me up to the boardroom and hand me a key to the executive bathroom. Well, you never know.
After a moments thought, Alison agrees to pop upstairs to see God and see if there are any partnership agreements in place with local employers that would better suit me. Whilst I am waiting, Man Mountain lumbers past and I stop him to ask about the Stage 3 reference. He looks sheepish and admits he shouldn't have told me. I say that in oncological terms, I am in a pretty dire situation, and can he tell me if there's a Stage 5? Or am I terminal? He declines to answer.
Alison returns saying that if I can find a local company that will enter into a DWP Work Trial, then they'll do the paperwork. It really is self-serve all the way.
I'm also worth £1,000 to any company that takes me on, due to the Recruitment Subsidy scheme. Alison hands me a sheaf of photocopied leaflets for me to enclose with any CVs or applications I send off. Over my rapidly cooling body, I think. Bad enough having to go through the application mincer, without flashing a big red flag that shouts 'Loser'.
I ask Alison about Stages 4 onwards. She looks grim and confirms that I really, really, really don't want to be around for the 18 month review. No, you're right, I don't. We part amicably and I fervently hope I never see her again.
Man Mountain is back downstairs with Mr In-Tray. I call a cheery goodbye and the big man says, mock serious, that he doesn't want me back here for the 9-months review. I couldn't agree more and concede that I am a total disgrace and can't believe I have got this far in the hall of shame. Man Mountain throws back his head and belly laughs (and he's got the equipment for it) and even Mr In-Tray manages a watery smile.
It's a small victory.
Thursday 6 May 2010
A Voice of Reason Amongst the Madness
It's such a little thing. Miniscule. Microscopic.
I have been summoned for my ritual humiliation interview (sorry, 6-month review) next Tuesday, 9.40am, no less. For those in the know, me before 11am is not pretty. I need buckets of caffeine to even focus. But this is not the problem.
The issue is that my usual signing-on day is Monday, at 3.45pm. It seems a waste of everyone's time (mine in particular) to insist on going in two days running. Not to mention the long weekend I have planned.
Now, in the real world, asking to combine the two appointments would be a no-brainer. Particularly as I am, ahem, the customer. No, don't laugh. It's the only environment I know where the customer is regarded, on the whole, as vermin. And I have already experienced what being 2 minutes late means, let alone not going at all.
So, a phone call. Call centre hell, here I come. Lee sounds like a decent chap, if not quite fulfilled by his career choice. But after several repeats of the JC name, followed by me spelling it out, I get put through. The 'phone rings for a long time, but I settle in for the wait. I know the 'phone ringing at my JC is regarded as an irritant that's best ignored, but I am determined.
My Guardian Angel is on the case. Kate answers. Considering the range of dreadful options I could have had, this is a wonderful fluke. I say who I am and Kate (bless her) knows who she's talking to. I ask her if she received my fulsome e-mail on the outsourcing agents she requested and she confesses, yes, she has, but has not read it properly yet. Feeling a little Quid Pro Quo moment coming on, I put my dilemma to Kate and wait.
There is a pause, but I have learned a lot about playing the long game with the JC. An issue that I would impatiently chivvy along as minor in the real world is left hanging, as issues like this are Very Serious in DWP-land. I try to project a smile into the silence. (Think, appeasing chimpanzee simper).
Kate finally concedes that, yes, it does seem a bit daft coming in both days, going so far as to comment that the DWP really doesn't do joined-up like it should. I could kiss her. Except it's bound to be against their 'no fraternising' policy. They must have one, somewhere. She makes the required note on my file.
I replace the receiver with a contented smile. I can go forth on my long weekend in bracing Filey without worrying about racing home for my irrelevant Monday appointment.
Four days of salty sea air beckons and I can't wait.
I have been summoned for my ritual humiliation interview (sorry, 6-month review) next Tuesday, 9.40am, no less. For those in the know, me before 11am is not pretty. I need buckets of caffeine to even focus. But this is not the problem.
The issue is that my usual signing-on day is Monday, at 3.45pm. It seems a waste of everyone's time (mine in particular) to insist on going in two days running. Not to mention the long weekend I have planned.
Now, in the real world, asking to combine the two appointments would be a no-brainer. Particularly as I am, ahem, the customer. No, don't laugh. It's the only environment I know where the customer is regarded, on the whole, as vermin. And I have already experienced what being 2 minutes late means, let alone not going at all.
So, a phone call. Call centre hell, here I come. Lee sounds like a decent chap, if not quite fulfilled by his career choice. But after several repeats of the JC name, followed by me spelling it out, I get put through. The 'phone rings for a long time, but I settle in for the wait. I know the 'phone ringing at my JC is regarded as an irritant that's best ignored, but I am determined.
My Guardian Angel is on the case. Kate answers. Considering the range of dreadful options I could have had, this is a wonderful fluke. I say who I am and Kate (bless her) knows who she's talking to. I ask her if she received my fulsome e-mail on the outsourcing agents she requested and she confesses, yes, she has, but has not read it properly yet. Feeling a little Quid Pro Quo moment coming on, I put my dilemma to Kate and wait.
There is a pause, but I have learned a lot about playing the long game with the JC. An issue that I would impatiently chivvy along as minor in the real world is left hanging, as issues like this are Very Serious in DWP-land. I try to project a smile into the silence. (Think, appeasing chimpanzee simper).
Kate finally concedes that, yes, it does seem a bit daft coming in both days, going so far as to comment that the DWP really doesn't do joined-up like it should. I could kiss her. Except it's bound to be against their 'no fraternising' policy. They must have one, somewhere. She makes the required note on my file.
I replace the receiver with a contented smile. I can go forth on my long weekend in bracing Filey without worrying about racing home for my irrelevant Monday appointment.
Four days of salty sea air beckons and I can't wait.
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