Another Friday another Dole Office Extravaganza

It is just another fucking Friday (that's my funday)

This was always going to be different to the other Fridays. I knew that from the moment I was given an appointment an hour earlier than usual with no reference to precious point B. This therefore led to a cap on my drinking and use of over the counter medication the night before, simply because early mornings do not suit the unemployed and dejected. 

This Friday I was due to meet my Job Centre Advisor. Now given that less than six months ago that I was responsible in my previous job in providing some degree of careers advice to 16 year olds I was understandably apprehensive. Nonetheless in all the career advice/reference writing I have given the youth of today I have always remained positive and never dismissed their aspirations. Except in those ten situations   one situation where I told a student I was going to relish purchasing my late night kebab etc from them, if they could even read how to deep fry some chips and learn how to hold a knife in a non threatening manner. 

So I arrived; less most of my documentation - which led to another hoohah and I suspect mumblings of incompetence. I think not working for several months has definitely de-skilled me to an extent and caused my organisational skills to take a considerable downturn.

Because of the earliness of my appointment there was none of the usual protracted period or waiting. But during the brief moments of wait I did notice a complete absolute piece of meat. He was not just prospective nookie material. He was and is potential marriage material. I might just make a point of rocking up an hour earlier so I can stalk his unsuspecting piece of ass.

My name was called. Incorrectly. Stupid Persian heritage. Everyone looks around. They think I am a terrorist. Not cool. This is not unusual for me, but clearly makes everyone else feel uncomfortable. They call my name again, in-spite of the fact I am standing up and walking towards them. Everyone looks tense. I want to scream the correct pronunciation of my name. I don't. I just look around the room and give everyone a knowing glance. CHRIST, if I were in a room and I heard that name called I would jump and run. I can not blame them. My neurotic laughing does not break the tension. It exacerbates it. At least when I marry my new victim I can change my name.  

The Meeting

I assume the position opposite my advisor.  She is not hot, nor does she seem kind. This all looks a little Pauline from the League of Gentleman. 


The usual range of questions start the formalities;


 "Have your circumstances changed over the last two weeks?" 


"No, they have not, I am still unemployed, I am still here ,I am still not working." I already have the stubby pen jammed in-between my grubby little hands and without realising I have started stabbing the table. I can feel her eyes upon me and then her coffee stained breath swarming underneath my nostrils.


"Now, today I am going to talk you about a few things. This is our first meeting, I doubt I will get through everything, but hopefully I will get a better idea of you and you will have a better idea of what we can do for you."  


Before she can continue, I abruptly interject "I am not doing a work trial if this is what this is about and I am not going to a job club". The swarm builds up under my nose again, I brace myself as she is about to speak. 


"First of all I need to re-confirm your details."


Details were duly confirmed.


"Now, what difficulties have you been facing?" 


"Many, I won't bore you with details of my life."


"Okay, so let me help you, for example, could the reason be you have not had a success finding a job be because you have any previous convictions?"


"Do train fines count?"


"No. What about drugs and alcohol issues?"


At this point I notice that she has a certificate in her pod which displays the words "Suicide Awareness Training". I hope she does not think that my shuffling about from side to side and scratching of my face is a sign. I have terribly itchy acne and because of the early rise I consumed three coffees and I am desperate for the loo. Which makes me think, that in all likelihood that it is in-fact my coffee breath making me retch.The retching probably makes her think I am a drug addict, along with the awful skin and swaying. Anyway, noticing this certificate does not stop me blurting out "I had no problem with alcohol until I became unemployed". She did not laugh. I find myself stressing that I was attempting to be funny, in return she gives me a pitiful look. 


She moves us on swiftly from this part of the conversation. I was quite grateful.


Action Stations


"I wish to explain to you one of your new action goals. In light of our conversation you are now having to attend a job club. Here are some leaflets with maps and details of ones in your local area."


As she has in-putted this on the system and written it down, there is no getting out of it. The only way I can get out of it is if I sign off. Bugger.


"Secondly , if you can not find a job in your area of expertise within the next month you will have to explore other fields of interest" She looks awfully pleased about this. It is a snear I have employed before, a snear of haha you loser. GOD I AM A LOSER.


"I am not sorry for what I am about to say to you. I know and understand you are doing your job. But please understand my position, I spent so many years at university and I have spent 8 years more or less working in the public sector. I am not giving that up.You can not expect me after 6 weeks of signing to be told that. There are people who are signed on for far longer, who make far less effort"


She sighs, looks more pissed off than at the start of the conversation and hisses"Yes, well this part will be actioned in our next meeting. Now next of all I wish to explain to you about work trials"


Whimpering and still swaying I manage to splutter "What?! No, sorry but no. I have cleaned toilets, been a waitress, stacked shelves, wiped bums, worked in call-centres and done all manner of work. I am by and large experienced. Really, please offer that to a 19 year old who needs it. Putting me in a work trial is truly a waste of your resources organising the placement and so forth. I will do volunteer work which is clearly linked to my career."


Frostier still "Again, we will action this in our next meeting."


"Um, I am not entirely sure you are listening? "


Definitely not listening. 


"Please sign here. Your next meeting is after the holidays.Have a Happy Christmas"


The only good thing I thought was to come from this was finally claiming a stubby pen of my own, but literally when leaving the job centre I got a phone call offering me an interview for a very interesting job.I am still awaiting the details of what I am going to have to present. But rest assured I will, no matter what work in a verse of Apple Bottom Jeans if it kills me.  




In other news...

• I have a black Christmas tree
• I went for breakfast with a property entrepreneur who can not help but steal teaspoons where ever we go and picks 5ps off the floor. 
• We have our first meeting arranged for campaign nanny. 

Nuts and Thoughtcrimes

 Nuts

My mother has recently entered a franchise market stall arrangement with her old school friend. This involves my mother selling nuts. It also involves my mother using her amazing wits and charms to convince men who have just bought a giant German sausage from the German sausage stall to buy nuts. They saunter past her and she hollers like a barrow girl, or perhaps like Nancy in Oliver! (the one directed by Carol Reed and where Ron Moody bought Fagin so frightfully to life that I know people who still fear him) .

A typical exchange;

"Do you want some nuts with your sausage sir?" 

"Only if you come with them you saucy minx" He winks at leers at mother.

"I do not come with them, but if you want some sauce I also sell chutney, but for a man like you I would not advise you buy any of my cheese with those sort of lines"  She is cold and harsh in her delivery and before the poor man knows it, he has parted with £2 for a bag of 100g cinnamon roasted cashews. 

Today I went and help her set up the stall. Mother was concerned that me not having paid work and not having got the job relating to the bananas has knocked my confidence. So as mothers do, she made me feel guilty. She made me help her against my will. Really I think she wanted me out of the house. I made no money (this was unpaid work) but I did learn a couple of things...

The Pigeon"Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious."
- George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 7

 1984 is without a doubt a literary masterpiece. I never once for a moment thought that Orwell's words would ring through my ears today whilst attempting to help my mum on a nut stall. 

Now on the stall there is not just nuts. There is curry, fudge, chutney and cheese - a wonderfully odd combination.  The stall is a small log cabin from hell, a hell which has frozen over because it is so cold in there. With a section which opens at the front with shelves and a spit guard displaying the goods. There are also samples. In order for people to sample the samples bread is provided on a small plate. No surprises there. Nothing out of the ordinary except the combination of food. 

Mother has been reporting that seagulls have started nesting on the log cabin of her misery. She shoos them by tapping the roof from the inside. The seagulls are most definitely conscious.Their ear piercing schreecing, sqwarking and shitting lets us know they are awake and ready to destroy. And anyone who knows anything about seagulls know they are rebels and they will rebel. It is how they have done this which is quite spectacular. It seems they have recruited some feeble pigeons. 

The first pigeon came for me. Directly at my face. I screamed it dropped and it landed in some curry. Pigeon Curry?

No.

So the first round of cleaning the samples out and starting again had begun. It took about an hour.

I am then having a five minute little break (playing on Mothers iphone to look for jobs I care about). When a woman starts screaming at me as if she herself is a seagull or a victim of a mugging. 

I look up. She is pointing at another FUCKING PIGEON. 

Another pigeon in the curry.

At the same time the seagulls are stomping and cheering on the roof of the logcabinfromhell.

She tells me in no uncertain terms in a thick middle class accent "you better sort that out".

She stares at me like a piece of shit until I start to move to the back of the stall to use the door to go round the front. Whilst all this is happening my mother is weeping over some burnt cashews, too entrenched in her own pain and suffering to notice the pigeon assault on her budding franchise.

When I get round the front of the stall, the woman is still standing there. Looking at me really disapprovingly. Like somehow it is my fault that pigeons want to eat and that the pigeons want to eat this curry sauce. And then I realize...

Judgement : "Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death."
- George Orwell, 1984, Book 1, Chapter 2

The woman had judged me. The woman had judged me for working (unpaid) on a market stall. Her tone. Her posture. Everything about her stance was directed towards judging me harshly. 

And the reason I know this judgement from the tone, stance and posture? 

Is surprise bloody surprise, I have made such judgements myself. I have made it in this blog about other unemployed people and how I somehow think I am better. I am not. There is no difference in any of this. I do not want this to sound like a disneyesque epiphany, because it is not, it is grittier than that and is probably part of some hideous post quarter life crisis chrysalis that I have yet to grow out of.

What really interests me now, is how my thoughtcrime is no longer about evolving into Pauline who shops from the Elizabeth Duke range in the Argos catalogue and goes down to the dole office would be the most awful thing to ever happen to me. But instead it is about how fucking sanctimonious and judgmental middle class wankers are.  I know I am one.

 So, she judged me for being a market stall barrow girl. I only stayed another hour on the stall because I was so upset. What I then noticed is how the people walking past look right through you or how the people who come to the stall are not actually interested in the goods,but are interested in the samples and the samples alone and anything you say is just drowned out by their smug greed.

 I am not really sure what I am going to do about this new underdeveloped thought process.

We shall see. But I would like to avoid making any further thoughtcrimes and avoid any further interactions with curried pigeons and Sergent Seagull.