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.