These are exciting times.
This morning I attended an interview for a part-time marketing role that is both interesting and fun, in an attractive local company. They actually liked me. No, truly. To the point that they offered me the job. I am beyond excited. Obviously, full-time money would be better, but it's enough that I can sign-off, as the salary easily replaces the mortgage insurance (and some).
Resisting the urge to burst through the JC doors, yelling 'So long, suckers!' I err on the side of caution. After all, I don't have the contract in my hand yet. How foolish would I feel coming back shame-faced in a fortnight, hoping they will have forgotten?
I take my seat in the waiting area. And wait. And wait. It's stifling again, so I fight the tedium by people watching. My good fortune has made me talkative, so I strike up a conversation with a large lady sitting next to me. She walks with the aid of a stick and has been out of work for over two years. Apparently, her disability means any potential employer has to jump through all sorts of 'elf & safety hoops, which must make her difficult to place.
After she moves off I spend a few minutes listening to Adorable Emma attempting to facilitate a three-way conversation between herself, a claimant and an interpreter. The woman, who sounds Spanish, has a toddler in a pushchair next to her and the girl is screaming and fractious. I know how she feels.
I really am feeling very sociable and find myself chatting to a young man with terrible teeth. He got fired from his last cleaning job, but is rather vague as to why. I have my suspicions, but don't voice them. Just then, a glorious sight. The exotic Oriental comes in and sits down and I goggle at today's ensemble. A huge straw hat, maxi skirt, black lace socks and silver sparkly plimsoles. All clashing marvellously with the sequin bag from last week. Honestly, she looks like she pulled everything from a dressing-up box. What a vision. I absolutely love her.
Sean gets the short straw today and I sit down opposite him and let him enter the double-figure apps from the last fortnight into the ever-ravenous system. I can't wait any longer and tell him all about the job offer, but say it's just an offer right now and I still need them to confirm my unemployed status right up to start date, for insurance purposes. Yes, he can do that, but can I come in and sign-off on the day I start working? I hesitate, in case it's a trick question. 'Err, no, because I'll be working.' Ah. Pause, whilst Sean processes this. I'm full of bright ideas, so I suggest I 'phone in on the day I start work, just to confirm. This, evidently, comes a poor second to absenting myself from my new employment on Day One, but I smile in what I hope is an engaging manner and Sean agrees to this compromise.
I glance around at all the familiar faces and say that I'll miss everyone and I had been hoping to make it to the staff Christmas do. Sean doesn't seem to do irony and says he would love to take me to the staff Christmas party. He's a sweet boy.
If all goes well, this should be the penultimate blog entry. I still have my 'exit' 'phone call to navigate, but I should not be coming back here anytime soon. I feel like I've had more than my fair share, to be honest.
As the Farmer said to Babe, 'That'll do, Pig. That'll do'.
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
Clash of the Titans
God, I feel weary.
Another Monday, another pointless JC trek. I have a stash of recent job apps under my arm and just want this over and done with. I see Zsa Zsa on the end desk - she's become a regular downstairs recently - apart from that, there's Sean, plus one other lady (mature-ish) that I don't recognise.
The waiting area is stifling and packed with the usual motley selection of idlers. As I'm leafing through the job section of the local press, an extraordinary creature enters and takes a seat. Flamboyant. Yes, that's the word. She is of Eastern origin and teeters in on the most fabulous killer heels, and jeans she must have poured herself into. Her bag is all sequins and she sparkles like an Oriental jewel. I catch myself gaping and as I tear my gaze away, I hear my name called.
It's the lady I don't recognise and seated next to her is a young lad doing a reasonable impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. A trainee, riding gunshot. Bless. Sandra* is all friendliness, but this is superficial and I detect a steel core not too far under the surface. Toby* is sitting next to her, looking bright and well scrubbed.
It's the usual 'How's it going?' conversation and in answer I just push the applications across the desk for her to enter onto the system. Not quite in double figures but still several times more than is required by my Jobseeker's Agreement. I tell her about the unpaid work I am doing and she stiffens, a little like a hound dog that catches a scent of pheasant. It transpires that if I'm working I need to fill in a wodge of bureaucratic nonsense. 'Why?' I ask. Because I do. Apparently, the DWP needs to be told, so they can investigate why.
Why what? Why I'm working, or why I'm not getting paid? 'Both' is the answer and I feel a distinct stand-off forming. Now, I'm a reasonable person (ask anyone) but this hacks me off. Here I am, being given an opportunity for some quality work-experience (all within the 16 hours permitted) and I take exception to the DWP feeling like they have to raise another raft of paperwork, which includes going and bothering the employer that has given me this opportunity.
Patiently - after all, there are trainees listening - I explain the motives behind working-for-nowt. I tick the benefits off my fingers and finish by explaining that all the jobsites and job coaches recommend this as an excellent idea. Sandra flashes a steely smile and says, yes, she knows, but the DWP needs to know.
Why? (This is fast becoming a circular argument, but I am digging my heels in). This is a great line - 'Because the DWP needs to know what you're up to. After all, those 10 hours you work, you could be job searching instead.' I take a long and very deliberate look at the pile of job apps in front of us and throw down a silent challenge.
Sandra pushes the form across to me (multiple pages of bull) and I glance through it. This is intrusive and I say so. I don't see why a government department should be as intimate with me as my gynaecologist. At least he warms his instruments first.
We are at an impasse. I put the form down, she pushes it back towards me and suggests I fill it in now. That would be a no.
Toby is agog. Perched on the edge of his seat, I don't think he's seen anything like this all day and his eyes swivel back and forth as if he was watching on Centre Court, SW19.
I point out that I am not receiving JSA any more, so am at a loss as to why the DWP would want to know about FREE work I am doing, in an effort to improve my opportunities. This takes the wind out of Sandra's sails, but only momentarily, and she recovers swiftly to state - firmly - that JSA or no JSA the DWP needs to know what I'm up to.
It's an Orwellian moment. I take the form and put it in my bag, with no intention of filling the damn thing in. It's a trick I've learned dealing with my darling Mum - now in the advanced stages of Dementia. Distract and diffuse. I haven't said I won't fill it in.
I just know I won't.
*Names have been changed
Another Monday, another pointless JC trek. I have a stash of recent job apps under my arm and just want this over and done with. I see Zsa Zsa on the end desk - she's become a regular downstairs recently - apart from that, there's Sean, plus one other lady (mature-ish) that I don't recognise.
The waiting area is stifling and packed with the usual motley selection of idlers. As I'm leafing through the job section of the local press, an extraordinary creature enters and takes a seat. Flamboyant. Yes, that's the word. She is of Eastern origin and teeters in on the most fabulous killer heels, and jeans she must have poured herself into. Her bag is all sequins and she sparkles like an Oriental jewel. I catch myself gaping and as I tear my gaze away, I hear my name called.
It's the lady I don't recognise and seated next to her is a young lad doing a reasonable impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. A trainee, riding gunshot. Bless. Sandra* is all friendliness, but this is superficial and I detect a steel core not too far under the surface. Toby* is sitting next to her, looking bright and well scrubbed.
It's the usual 'How's it going?' conversation and in answer I just push the applications across the desk for her to enter onto the system. Not quite in double figures but still several times more than is required by my Jobseeker's Agreement. I tell her about the unpaid work I am doing and she stiffens, a little like a hound dog that catches a scent of pheasant. It transpires that if I'm working I need to fill in a wodge of bureaucratic nonsense. 'Why?' I ask. Because I do. Apparently, the DWP needs to be told, so they can investigate why.
Why what? Why I'm working, or why I'm not getting paid? 'Both' is the answer and I feel a distinct stand-off forming. Now, I'm a reasonable person (ask anyone) but this hacks me off. Here I am, being given an opportunity for some quality work-experience (all within the 16 hours permitted) and I take exception to the DWP feeling like they have to raise another raft of paperwork, which includes going and bothering the employer that has given me this opportunity.
Patiently - after all, there are trainees listening - I explain the motives behind working-for-nowt. I tick the benefits off my fingers and finish by explaining that all the jobsites and job coaches recommend this as an excellent idea. Sandra flashes a steely smile and says, yes, she knows, but the DWP needs to know.
Why? (This is fast becoming a circular argument, but I am digging my heels in). This is a great line - 'Because the DWP needs to know what you're up to. After all, those 10 hours you work, you could be job searching instead.' I take a long and very deliberate look at the pile of job apps in front of us and throw down a silent challenge.
Sandra pushes the form across to me (multiple pages of bull) and I glance through it. This is intrusive and I say so. I don't see why a government department should be as intimate with me as my gynaecologist. At least he warms his instruments first.
We are at an impasse. I put the form down, she pushes it back towards me and suggests I fill it in now. That would be a no.
Toby is agog. Perched on the edge of his seat, I don't think he's seen anything like this all day and his eyes swivel back and forth as if he was watching on Centre Court, SW19.
I point out that I am not receiving JSA any more, so am at a loss as to why the DWP would want to know about FREE work I am doing, in an effort to improve my opportunities. This takes the wind out of Sandra's sails, but only momentarily, and she recovers swiftly to state - firmly - that JSA or no JSA the DWP needs to know what I'm up to.
It's an Orwellian moment. I take the form and put it in my bag, with no intention of filling the damn thing in. It's a trick I've learned dealing with my darling Mum - now in the advanced stages of Dementia. Distract and diffuse. I haven't said I won't fill it in.
I just know I won't.
*Names have been changed
Sunday 4 July 2010
Apathy
Monday. It must be signing-on day again. I have total sympathy with Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
Putting my positive head on and grasping this week's clutch of applications, I skip up the steps and almost collide with Man Mountain - the last person I expected to see. What happened to Le Mans, I ask? Apparently he's been and come back and on his return, discovered that some wretch had stolen his beloved motorbike. His face looks thunderous and he's muttering darkly about retribution. I hope whoever stole it can run fast.
Taking my seat in the holding pen, I see Kate through a doorway and she waves and calls out hello. We exchange pleasantries across the floor and I feel like an honorary staff member. Perhaps I'll get an invite the the Christmas Party? I bet that's a riot. What's the betting party poppers, balloons et al would be banned on 'elf & safety grounds? Or simply banned because they were fun? I don't think the JC is meant to be a fun-emporium, it's meant to be a destination of shame where hopeless wastrels like me come to be chastised for our idleness.
There's only two on again this week but I've not long sat down before Sean calls my name. I'm feeling bullish today and when he asks me what I've been doing, I tell him. I tell him that the advice I was given two weeks before is wrong and at total variance to the DWP website and JobCentrePlus telephone service. I tell him that I am working - true, only for a dozen hours per week and not paid, but working none-the-less and LOVING it! I get to engage grown-ups in business conversations and I love it, love it, love it. A good dose of cold-calling has also helped with my confidence when it comes to my job applications and I have become quite stalker-ish about following them up. I am pig-sick of sloppy, un-professional and downright rude recruiters and I tell him so.
Sean then asks how I got on with Linda, the lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities (allegedly) and says he saw me come in for my appointment with her, then saw me leave about 5 minutes later. He thought it was odd and I confirmed that Linda was in fact not-the-lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities and had told me so in pretty terse terms. "Yes, she can be a bit abrupt", was his only comment. That was it. Next subject.
I fantasise about this scenario happening in the private sector. Can you imagine a customer receiving such non-service and no-one else within the organisation stepping in to take up the case and re-refer it to the appropriate place? (OK, OK, I know Virgin Media, BT, Talk-Talk and in fact any other company that outsources its' 'customer support' to far-flung call centres easily fall into the category of stupendously bad, but let me make my point).
Sean clearly feels this is not within his remit, so we move on and I really can't be bothered to fight any more. The solution to my jobless-ness is within my own hands and will have zip to do with the DWP. I ask Sean to sign my ABI1 form and all of a sudden I feel like I'm in a loveless marriage, an arrangement of convenience. We're going through the motions and the attraction has long expired.
Putting my positive head on and grasping this week's clutch of applications, I skip up the steps and almost collide with Man Mountain - the last person I expected to see. What happened to Le Mans, I ask? Apparently he's been and come back and on his return, discovered that some wretch had stolen his beloved motorbike. His face looks thunderous and he's muttering darkly about retribution. I hope whoever stole it can run fast.
Taking my seat in the holding pen, I see Kate through a doorway and she waves and calls out hello. We exchange pleasantries across the floor and I feel like an honorary staff member. Perhaps I'll get an invite the the Christmas Party? I bet that's a riot. What's the betting party poppers, balloons et al would be banned on 'elf & safety grounds? Or simply banned because they were fun? I don't think the JC is meant to be a fun-emporium, it's meant to be a destination of shame where hopeless wastrels like me come to be chastised for our idleness.
There's only two on again this week but I've not long sat down before Sean calls my name. I'm feeling bullish today and when he asks me what I've been doing, I tell him. I tell him that the advice I was given two weeks before is wrong and at total variance to the DWP website and JobCentrePlus telephone service. I tell him that I am working - true, only for a dozen hours per week and not paid, but working none-the-less and LOVING it! I get to engage grown-ups in business conversations and I love it, love it, love it. A good dose of cold-calling has also helped with my confidence when it comes to my job applications and I have become quite stalker-ish about following them up. I am pig-sick of sloppy, un-professional and downright rude recruiters and I tell him so.
Sean then asks how I got on with Linda, the lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities (allegedly) and says he saw me come in for my appointment with her, then saw me leave about 5 minutes later. He thought it was odd and I confirmed that Linda was in fact not-the-lady-who-knows-all-about-training-opportunities and had told me so in pretty terse terms. "Yes, she can be a bit abrupt", was his only comment. That was it. Next subject.
I fantasise about this scenario happening in the private sector. Can you imagine a customer receiving such non-service and no-one else within the organisation stepping in to take up the case and re-refer it to the appropriate place? (OK, OK, I know Virgin Media, BT, Talk-Talk and in fact any other company that outsources its' 'customer support' to far-flung call centres easily fall into the category of stupendously bad, but let me make my point).
Sean clearly feels this is not within his remit, so we move on and I really can't be bothered to fight any more. The solution to my jobless-ness is within my own hands and will have zip to do with the DWP. I ask Sean to sign my ABI1 form and all of a sudden I feel like I'm in a loveless marriage, an arrangement of convenience. We're going through the motions and the attraction has long expired.
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