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. 

Unemployment Prolongs: The Dole Office and the FOURTH visit.

The importance of Katie Price and Peter Andre

My morning started as follows :

I woke up and was forced, after mummy thrust a cup of coffee in my hand (she forgot extra milky and two sugars - I probably need to have a a little chat with her about this, the standards are slipping, and to be fair I feel I have had to compromise on a lot recently and I feel very strongly about my morning cuppa) to have a full blown conversation about Katie Price and Peter Andre.

"Morning darling, here you go". She plonks herself down on my bed. "I have a theory I need to share with you" She leans forward and has this manic look in her eyes which suggests it is either exceptionally important or is an idea which has been born out of a mild hangover and interrupted sleep. "It is about Katie Price and Peter Andre!". She is smiling insanely. Mother looks pleased with herself. I think she thinks she has cracked whatever this is (possibly more than roasting the nuts on the poxy stall). 

"Really, Mum? I am grateful for the coffee, but a natter about Katie and Peter at 8am, really?" 

"Yes, really gorgeous. I mean think about it." Mum pauses for all of a nano second to allow me to contemplate Peter and Katie. "Think about what mum?"

"Well, I mean who would know him if it weren't for Katie Price? I would not know him for 'Mysterious Girl'

At this point I raise my hand to my mums' face in a stop signal. Thankfully she leaves the room. I start thinking about putting Jeremy Kyle on, slitting my wrists and crawling to the dole office.

When I come out of my room. She is there. On the laptop. Reading a BBC breaking news live feed through my twitter account. This explains her thought process. She found something on there about them. Sometimes I wish me and my older brother never taught her how to use the internet. 

 "You see sweety! She is giving him an undisclosed sum for libel!" I still can not fathom how this bears any significance to my life. "Well!" (mother is now shouting) "If it were not for her, he would have nothing". Perhaps, I start to wonder, she is going to tie this into feminism. I start to will her on, hoping that telepathically she is reading my mind. In fact she thinks, my intense "thoughtstare" is me giving her an evil "Don't look at me like that! I am trying to make a point which will help you." 

I start to sigh/yawn/despair and muster a mutter of "Okay, get on with it then."

"Basically, you are strong woman, with a great set of jugs, you don't have to thank me for them and amazing lips. Why don't you glamour model?" (Bless her really though, she is ignoring the fact that I am now obese and my tits have started to sag, this is in spite of her recent very successful lazer eye surgery).

"MUM!"

"And then you could find yourself a willock. Who would worship you and do what you say. You need a willock. I am telling you a willock."

Another great suggestion from Mother. It is 8:13am. These are 13 minutes of my life I am never getting back.

It is hearing the word "willock" which reminds me, I have to go to the dole office and sign on again.

A degree of deja vu

I get a lift to the dole office again with mum. I really have started regressing. She also found all my dole stuff for me. I seem to have the organisational skills of a 15 year old with dyslexia and overdue coursework and some impending mock exams. I am in a constant state of FREAK OUT.  I also have acne. Fuck unemployment is shit.

Anyhow, the stupid level crossing at Boundary Road is down, which causes me to be a grand total of 8 minutes late for my signing on time. I know they will make me pay for it. 

I get there. And the little security dude knows. He knows I am late. He can see it in my eyes. I sign on at 10:25 am. It is 10:33am. 

He takes all the paperwork from my hands. He goes over to the lady with the bad hair dye and talks to her. She gives him a form. He shuffles back to me. He hands me this form. He gives me a stubbymotherfuckingpen. I HAVE ONLY GOT THROUGH THE FIRST SET OF AUTOMATIC DOORS AND I HAVE ALREADY BEEN GIVEN MY FIRST FUCKING STUBBY PEN.

He explains that he has written down I am late, he has also noticed I have forgotten some paperwork. Brilliant.

Clearly, I start to sweat middle class confusion profusely. I either look snooty or desperate. Actually this is not good at all. As I start rubbing and clutching my hands together anxioulsy I realise I have not painted my nails and they are all sad, chipped and flakey. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I can see my monobrow from a distance of more than 3 meters away. AND MY TASH.To make matters worse I have no make up on due to unemployment induced acne. This is shit. I am standing somewhere that I find repulsive to the very core of my being and I look equally repulsive. Anyone who knows me knows the following things;

1. I am very fussy about hands, my own, other peoples, touching them and so forth. I get a manicure on the sly once a month. I do my nails twice a week myself. Having chipped nails to me is really an indicator of me being at a low ebb.

2. I get my monobrow "fixed" every three weeks. Without fail. I have had the same beautician for 15 years. I look like chewbaccas wife without her assistance.

3. I bleach my tash every week. It seems in honor of "Movember" I have not done this. AT ALL.

I feel the urge to runaway. I want to runaway and go to my beautician and spend £100. At least £100. I want to throw myself on the floor. 

Clearly mummy was being a fucking sarcastic bitch this morning when she said I could be a glamour model. Good joke mummy. Crap coffee means I was not awake enough to appreciate the elaborateness of it all. Her lazer eye surgery was good. I look out to the carpark and see her pointing and laughing. Bloody bitch. 

I dutifully and nervoulsy fill out the new set of forms that little dude has given me. He then indicates I can go up the stairs. When I get up the stairs I have to explain my lateness and show the paperwork which is now clammy and covered in my sweat to two more security guards.

I am finally allowed through to precious point B.

I wait. And I wait. 

Belonging

I notice two men I want to sleep with. It has taken four visits. A lowering of standards and dramatic growth of my own facial hair has finally lead me to find people attractive in here. I BELONG! 

My name is called.

But it is called over to poxy point A. I think my head is going to implode. Clearly my lateness has thrown the dole office out of sync.

I go over and I start to feel bad. I start to feel really bad about how fucking judgmental I have been again. The man is so nice about how hard I have been looking for a job. He asks me have my circumstances changed. He asks me what happened at my third interview. I explain. We laugh so loudly about the bananas that we are forced to explain it to the people at the desk next to us.They laugh too. Soon there are about 10 people laughing with me and at me in the dole office. I BELONG!

I feel what I believe maybe my tear ducts starting to work as there is a strange stinging sensation in my eyes. It feels foreign to me. Through his giggling he arranges an appointment for me. He wishes me luck. He trys to find some jobs I can apply for. He hands me some more paper. He sends me on my way.

I go outside find mummy and demand her mobile phone. I ring my beautician. I explain the state of my face of my hands. She laughs. I am seeing her on Saturday.

This rollercoaster is brilliant. I feel happy. Happy that I have become more aware and happy that there are some people who really want to help; help me find a job and to help me feel pretty. I just wish I could lower my standards some more so I would not feel a constant inner conflict of who I am, was and who I will be.

The context of my situation: The Dole Office Part One.

WHY

I decided to start writing this blog so I would not take a sleeping pill as a means to kill a day during my reign of unemployment. It was this or I was going to volunteer to watch Made In Chelsea on 4 on Demand. A brief 30 second phone call to my younger sister explaining my predicament; blog, pill or MIC made me realise I should at least try and turn my hand at writing one semi-successful blog.

I also want to document the ups and downs of this period of my life. I have never been unemployed. I have until my first JSA payment a total of £13.43 in my bank account. I find that both worrying and exciting; it is not only a test of my resourcefulness but also a perverse social experiment -  what will I do when I get desperate? What is desperate to me? I do not even know. 

WHEN

I have been unemployed from Friday 28th of October 2011 (my first visit to the dole office) at 10:25am. I returned to the country on Wednesday 26th of October 2011 after a strange 3 months in Central America.Before this I was a teacher. 

THE DOLE OFFICE PART ONE

A friend had told me that when I go to the dole office to expect to be handed a short stubby pen that you often find in Ikea, Argus and a bookmakers.A governmental tool to further demoralise you. I bought my own. I deliberately dressed to look colourful and full of happiness to ward off any misery.This failed. 

I arrive at the dole office, which is tucked away behind Portslade Station and off Boundary Road in Hove, which has not changed at all since the 1980s and when my father used to own a sweatshop/child labour  business on the same road, that I not so affectionately called the "Factory of Fear". The sight of Boundary Road remaining so untainted and defiant in the 20 year or so interlude since I last graced its' paving slabs made me want to cry, take a sleeping pill, watch MIC (to ensure the success of the desired effects of the sleeping pill) and to lie down on the level crossing with my wrists wide open. Thankfully these thoughts are brief and before I know it I am being welcomed into the Dole Office by a lady with highlights which she must have had done by a 16 year old GNVQ Health and Beauty Care student who could not read the instructions. She told me to stop chewing my gum. I will never tell a child to stop chewing their gum again.The process of demoralisation has begun and not a stubby pen in sight.

I take a seat and I wait. 

After 10 minutes I am called over to the first person who assesses me. Job done. I return to my seat and I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

25 minutes pass.

I start to think about what sexual acts I would perform on the men in the room. The conclusion: none. 

The level of my snobbery causes part of me to die inside.

10 more minutes pass of this (un)dramatic monotonous inner monologue unemployed turmoil.I  remind my self it has been two days. My name is called  slurred. 

I stand up and head towards someone I would have otherwise suspected to have been a drunk if it were not for the name badge and desk between us. When I realise he has no distinguishable teeth I start to get scared. We go over my targets and the booklets I have to fill out in order to be eligible for JSA. I was noticeably shocked at the news that I did not have to provide evidence of this to support what I put in the booklet. No wonder so many people are unemployed.It really is that easy.  

I leave feeling pleased I did not see one stubby pen, yet duped, because in spite of the lack of stubbypennedness the Dole Office still managed to steal a little bit of my soul.