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.