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