The fat lady has warmed up her vocal chords nicely.
It is my first lunch-hour in my new employment and I slip out of the office to make my last call to the DWP. I am confirming that I have started work and wish to sign-off. It's a momentous occasion and would have been improved with a glass of chilled champers in my hand, but satisfying enough without.
Dean* is a nice enough lad, but is struggling with the concept that I was not in receipt of benefits. "So, you're on JSA?" he starts and I head him off at the pass. No, no JSA. Not for some time now. "Oh, OK. Council Tax Benefit, then?" Nope, not on that either, never have been. "Housing Benefit?" he asks hopefully. No, I confirm, I have never been in recipt of that either. Pause. "Oh, right then, Tax Credits." It's a statement. I wonder for a moment if I am such a rarity, in receipt of none of the generous benefits available, but I know I'm not, as all other connections in my circle are equally bereft of state assistance.
"No, I'm afraid not," I say and Dean seems disappointed. Perhaps he gets his job satisfaction by calculating how much money the state saves every time someone on full-blown benefits finds employment. I'm afraid I'm rather thin meat for him. "I'll tell you what I have been on," I volunteer and Dean brightens momentarily. I sense his anticipation. "Bugger all. That's what I've been on. A big, fat zero." For a split second I know he's checking his list of benefits for the one labelled 'Bugger All' but he quickly realises I'm pulling his leg. "Oh, OK then." he concedes and I confirm that my call is nothing to do with ending state handouts and everything to do with DWP bureaucracy. I want this chapter firmly brought to a close so I can go home and shred every last piece of paper that reminds me of this surreal - and wholly unenjoyable - relationship.
After all the momentous episodes with the Job Centre, its' staff and maddening, de-humanising systems, this final contact is somewhat of an anti-climax. Like a Roman Candle that promises much but fizzles out with a whimper, rather than a bang. But I'm relieved that it's so. I am emotionally shattered. I have been in this abusive relationship for the last 8-plus months and need time and space for healing of mind, body and spirit. Pulling on my grown-up work outfit and driving to work this morning, I sensed the start of the healing process, but it will take some time.
I end the call and take a deep breath. The world has a whole new perspective right now and I feel vaguely familiar feelings - dormant for some time - stirring within. Self-respect, independence, confidence. It's a start.
So, with apologies to NASA, may I just say, this is Dole Queue Virgin signing-off. Over and out.
*Name has been changed
Sunday 1 August 2010
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Madame Butterfly
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'.
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'.
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.
Thursday 10 June 2010
180 Degrees
I don't know Jenna, but if she wants to be my new best friend, that's fine with me.
Jenna is on the other end of the 0845 number that leads directly to JobCentrePlus. It's 8am and I'm determined to get in early. A late night 'phone call from a mate (the PRINCE2 mate) leads me to believe the JC have got it wrong. About me not being able to work for a limited number of hours, that is. Surely not? I mean, this is a massive deal, considering the number of people who go through that JC, all, surely, asking the same question.
I ask Jenna what the limitations are. "Sixteen hours" she replies promptly. Yes, but doing what, I ask? The question stumps her. "Well, anything you like". So, I press on. I'm not limited to charity work then? "No, of course not". And it's OK for me to take advantage of this unpaid training opportunity? Jenna hesitates, but only because she thinks it's a trick question. If she were permitted, I'm sure she would come out with "Duuur"?
There's a pause, then Jenna says, "But your JC should be able to tell you this". I explain to the dear, wonderful, girl that my JC is saying the absolute opposite and there was me about to sign-off and lose my precious ABI1 form. Jenna is at a loss and advises me to check out the DWP website, which does, indeed, confirm the 16-hours-do-what-you-like-get-paid-or-unpaid rule. (Of course, any earnings will be deducted off JSA, but seeing as I don't get that anyway, and mine is unpaid work, it's a double-moot point).
I put the 'phone down with a sense of supreme relief. Thank goodness. I can proceed with this opportunity, continue to job-hunt on the side and not get evicted. Trebles all round!
It's not till later that I get mad. Fuming that essential government policy can somehow be so badly misinterpreted by those in a position of trust, advising the desperate. I'm not sure how I will tackle this at my next signing-on. One thing's for sure, I will tackle it.
Perhaps I will get them to 'phone the fragrant Jenna. My new best friend.
Jenna is on the other end of the 0845 number that leads directly to JobCentrePlus. It's 8am and I'm determined to get in early. A late night 'phone call from a mate (the PRINCE2 mate) leads me to believe the JC have got it wrong. About me not being able to work for a limited number of hours, that is. Surely not? I mean, this is a massive deal, considering the number of people who go through that JC, all, surely, asking the same question.
I ask Jenna what the limitations are. "Sixteen hours" she replies promptly. Yes, but doing what, I ask? The question stumps her. "Well, anything you like". So, I press on. I'm not limited to charity work then? "No, of course not". And it's OK for me to take advantage of this unpaid training opportunity? Jenna hesitates, but only because she thinks it's a trick question. If she were permitted, I'm sure she would come out with "Duuur"?
There's a pause, then Jenna says, "But your JC should be able to tell you this". I explain to the dear, wonderful, girl that my JC is saying the absolute opposite and there was me about to sign-off and lose my precious ABI1 form. Jenna is at a loss and advises me to check out the DWP website, which does, indeed, confirm the 16-hours-do-what-you-like-get-paid-or-unpaid rule. (Of course, any earnings will be deducted off JSA, but seeing as I don't get that anyway, and mine is unpaid work, it's a double-moot point).
I put the 'phone down with a sense of supreme relief. Thank goodness. I can proceed with this opportunity, continue to job-hunt on the side and not get evicted. Trebles all round!
It's not till later that I get mad. Fuming that essential government policy can somehow be so badly misinterpreted by those in a position of trust, advising the desperate. I'm not sure how I will tackle this at my next signing-on. One thing's for sure, I will tackle it.
Perhaps I will get them to 'phone the fragrant Jenna. My new best friend.
Mission Impossible
Groundhog Day.
Up the stairs again, this time The Bejewelled One directs me to the Mysterious First Floor. I like it up here. It's a much nicer view and you're away from the proles.
Linda welcomes me and I am brimming with optimistic anticipation. I have all the information about the certified course I am interested in and can't wait to see what they can help me with.
"I really don't know why they've made an appointment for you to see me today. I can't tell you about training, it's not what we do". As an opener, it's not encouraging, but I can't believe Sean can have got it so wrong. Perhaps she doesn't understand? I explain the proposal but she has a definite look about her that brooks no argument. Pushing the info across the desk, I explain that someone I know has had PRINCE2 sponsorship, so surely this is on a par?
With a reluctant sigh, Linda rises to consult God. During her abscence I begin to deflate. Two, consecutive days of total negativity drains even the most boisterous spirit and all of a sudden I've had enough. I feel like the hate-hate relationship I have had with the JC is in its' glorious death throes and I can't wait to be out of its' toxic clutches.
Linda is back and I know it's a No before she even sits down. Perhaps, if I had a letter from this company, stating that this certification was an absolute must, backed up with a guaranteed job at the end.......well, perhaps. But, otherwise, it's a firm No.
She pushes a business card across the table to me. "You could talk to these people", she suggests. It's a ghastly, government-sponsored organisation that helps with CVs, interview techniques etc., and they meet in the local library. No. No. No. Not for the first time I realise that the DWP just doesn't get it.
I take my leave. Prolonging this abortive appointment is pointless, and I find myself outside the JC doors within approximately 7 minutes of entering them.
Thank goodness I got free parking.
Up the stairs again, this time The Bejewelled One directs me to the Mysterious First Floor. I like it up here. It's a much nicer view and you're away from the proles.
Linda welcomes me and I am brimming with optimistic anticipation. I have all the information about the certified course I am interested in and can't wait to see what they can help me with.
"I really don't know why they've made an appointment for you to see me today. I can't tell you about training, it's not what we do". As an opener, it's not encouraging, but I can't believe Sean can have got it so wrong. Perhaps she doesn't understand? I explain the proposal but she has a definite look about her that brooks no argument. Pushing the info across the desk, I explain that someone I know has had PRINCE2 sponsorship, so surely this is on a par?
With a reluctant sigh, Linda rises to consult God. During her abscence I begin to deflate. Two, consecutive days of total negativity drains even the most boisterous spirit and all of a sudden I've had enough. I feel like the hate-hate relationship I have had with the JC is in its' glorious death throes and I can't wait to be out of its' toxic clutches.
Linda is back and I know it's a No before she even sits down. Perhaps, if I had a letter from this company, stating that this certification was an absolute must, backed up with a guaranteed job at the end.......well, perhaps. But, otherwise, it's a firm No.
She pushes a business card across the table to me. "You could talk to these people", she suggests. It's a ghastly, government-sponsored organisation that helps with CVs, interview techniques etc., and they meet in the local library. No. No. No. Not for the first time I realise that the DWP just doesn't get it.
I take my leave. Prolonging this abortive appointment is pointless, and I find myself outside the JC doors within approximately 7 minutes of entering them.
Thank goodness I got free parking.
What would Stelios say?
Having managed to skive last week's additional appointment, I skip up the stairs to the JC, greeting Man Mountain and Mr In-Tray with a breezy good morning.
The waiting area is quite empty, apart from a couple of stoic souls, who, (judging by the way they all keep looking at their watches) have been kept waiting for some time. It's unclear why this should be. I count the desks.
Desk One, empty.
Desk Two, Adorable Emma, but not seeing punters, she's answering the 'phone. Gosh, this is a first.
Desk Three, a youngish lad. Solid build, looks eager.
Desk Four, double-take. It's Crumpled Brenda, in black again. I expect this will now be her Monday outfit for the next six months.
Desk Five, empty.
Desk Six, can't see, but there's no mistaking the delicious corruption of those vowels. That has to be Zsa Zsa, obviously down for emergency cover again.
Whilst waiting, I tune into Adorable Emma's conversation. Well, you can't help yourself, really. She seems to be advising someone who has a legitimate reason for having to rearrange their signing-on. It sounds like they have secured an interview, something you think would result in champagne corks popping and congratulations all round. Apparently not, as this inteferes with the bureaucratic function of the DWP and is Not On. "You will have to come in for a 'Sit & Wait' appointment" says Emma. As opposed to a Sit & Wait & Wait & Wait appointment like the rest of us then? I'll have one of those, please.
The eager young man calls my name and I find myself sitting across from Sean*, who, I establish, has only been working here 9 weeks and LOVES it! Loves it, loves it. It's great to meet someone so happy in their role. He came from banking, apparently. Well, sombody has to.
I tell Sean that I have the opportunity to work (unpaid) with a local company, who will train me in their sector, give me valuable skills and, if I work out, there could well be a job for me at the end of it. I will keep within the 16 hours per week allowed, so I just need to inform him, I think? Pause. Long pause. "Oh, I don't know about that", he says, and rises to consult Zsa Zsa. After a few minutes I notice Mr In-Tray is also in the fray. A 3-way conversation about me, but not with me. Nice.
Sean comes back. "No, you can't do that, it has to be for a registered charity, not a commercial company". Really? That's a blow. Well, what would happen if I took this offer up? They would sign me off, apparently. No more NI contributions, no more ABI1 form. Bugger all.
What about making this a Work Trial then? I know the DWP sponsors those? Sean, again, shuffles off to consult Mr In-Tray, who, this time, comes across to the desk to deliver the negative news. No they won't.
So, Mr In-Tray, let me re-cap here -
No, I can't do unpaid work.
No, if I do it I won't get my NI contribution paid.
No, if I do it I won't get my ABI1 form signed.
No, they won't make this a Work Trial.
I ask him what happened to the spirit of enterprise that made this country great? How on earth did all those Dragons get into their Den? He has the grace to concede that The System does not exactly encourage endeavour and initiative. As if The System was a beast of autonomous, uncontrollable nature, as opposed to a man-made disaster.
Swallowing my disappointment I move onto the accredited training available for this new role I have been looking at. I pass over all the details and ask if the DWP would part-fund this investment in my future? (I only ask as I know of someone who has had their very expensive PRINCE2 certification co-funded, so it's worth a punt). At last, Sean feels like he can be positive and says that although he can't advise, he'll make an appointment with Linda* on the Mysterious First Floor, as she's the one who can tell me everything about what's available. Hurrah! I leave with an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Yes, I know two visits in two days will take stamina, but for the goal of funded training, I can do this.
Bidding a cheery adieu to Man Mountain, I tell him he'll see me again tomorrow. Oh, no he won't. He's off for the next 6 weeks, working as a steward on various sports fixtures, here and on the Continent.
I wonder if I'll still be a visitor here, when he returns?
*Names have been changed
The waiting area is quite empty, apart from a couple of stoic souls, who, (judging by the way they all keep looking at their watches) have been kept waiting for some time. It's unclear why this should be. I count the desks.
Desk One, empty.
Desk Two, Adorable Emma, but not seeing punters, she's answering the 'phone. Gosh, this is a first.
Desk Three, a youngish lad. Solid build, looks eager.
Desk Four, double-take. It's Crumpled Brenda, in black again. I expect this will now be her Monday outfit for the next six months.
Desk Five, empty.
Desk Six, can't see, but there's no mistaking the delicious corruption of those vowels. That has to be Zsa Zsa, obviously down for emergency cover again.
Whilst waiting, I tune into Adorable Emma's conversation. Well, you can't help yourself, really. She seems to be advising someone who has a legitimate reason for having to rearrange their signing-on. It sounds like they have secured an interview, something you think would result in champagne corks popping and congratulations all round. Apparently not, as this inteferes with the bureaucratic function of the DWP and is Not On. "You will have to come in for a 'Sit & Wait' appointment" says Emma. As opposed to a Sit & Wait & Wait & Wait appointment like the rest of us then? I'll have one of those, please.
The eager young man calls my name and I find myself sitting across from Sean*, who, I establish, has only been working here 9 weeks and LOVES it! Loves it, loves it. It's great to meet someone so happy in their role. He came from banking, apparently. Well, sombody has to.
I tell Sean that I have the opportunity to work (unpaid) with a local company, who will train me in their sector, give me valuable skills and, if I work out, there could well be a job for me at the end of it. I will keep within the 16 hours per week allowed, so I just need to inform him, I think? Pause. Long pause. "Oh, I don't know about that", he says, and rises to consult Zsa Zsa. After a few minutes I notice Mr In-Tray is also in the fray. A 3-way conversation about me, but not with me. Nice.
Sean comes back. "No, you can't do that, it has to be for a registered charity, not a commercial company". Really? That's a blow. Well, what would happen if I took this offer up? They would sign me off, apparently. No more NI contributions, no more ABI1 form. Bugger all.
What about making this a Work Trial then? I know the DWP sponsors those? Sean, again, shuffles off to consult Mr In-Tray, who, this time, comes across to the desk to deliver the negative news. No they won't.
So, Mr In-Tray, let me re-cap here -
No, I can't do unpaid work.
No, if I do it I won't get my NI contribution paid.
No, if I do it I won't get my ABI1 form signed.
No, they won't make this a Work Trial.
I ask him what happened to the spirit of enterprise that made this country great? How on earth did all those Dragons get into their Den? He has the grace to concede that The System does not exactly encourage endeavour and initiative. As if The System was a beast of autonomous, uncontrollable nature, as opposed to a man-made disaster.
Swallowing my disappointment I move onto the accredited training available for this new role I have been looking at. I pass over all the details and ask if the DWP would part-fund this investment in my future? (I only ask as I know of someone who has had their very expensive PRINCE2 certification co-funded, so it's worth a punt). At last, Sean feels like he can be positive and says that although he can't advise, he'll make an appointment with Linda* on the Mysterious First Floor, as she's the one who can tell me everything about what's available. Hurrah! I leave with an appointment for tomorrow morning.
Yes, I know two visits in two days will take stamina, but for the goal of funded training, I can do this.
Bidding a cheery adieu to Man Mountain, I tell him he'll see me again tomorrow. Oh, no he won't. He's off for the next 6 weeks, working as a steward on various sports fixtures, here and on the Continent.
I wonder if I'll still be a visitor here, when he returns?
*Names have been changed
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