If you have never had to claim job-seeking benefit payments from a Job Centre, you are very lucky. I am currently in the unfortunate position of having to do so and am required to attend fortnightly interviews at my local Job Centre to prove that I am actually looking for work. Needless to say, I find these regular visits somewhat disruptive to my job searching.
In the beginning I was filled with naïve optimism. I received an appointment card that informed me I was to attend the Job Centre at 11:22 every other Thursday.
11.22.
Not 11.20 or 11.25.
I found this encouraging and had visions of German-esque efficiency and customers being smoothly processed in 2 minute time slots.
Time passes. It is the day of my first visit.
I arrive at the Job Centre and am greeted by a double door. I see two door attendants standing inside. Neither moves to open the door for me, so I open the door myself. I smile at the door people: one man and one woman. I find I am smiling alone. No words are spoken so I continue on, triggering the female guard into action. She bars my path with a stumpy arm.
‘What are you here for?’ she snaps, jutting her chin out.
I explain that, like almost everyone else, I am here for my Job Centre interview. She seems suspicious, but gestures that I should move onward. Three metres ahead there is another woman leaning on a Welcome podium. I approach her and smile. I am still smiling alone. She musters up the energy to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of my presence. I realise that verbal communication skills are thin on the ground here, so I just wave my appointment card. She thumbs behind her in the direction of a large waiting area.
I walk on and find a spot on one of the seats. The seats are arranged in three sides of a square and face inwards. The area is fairly full, so we all sit in silence trying not to stare at each other. There is no interesting reading material available, but there is a slight smell of cheese in the air.
Across from the waiting area are four service desks numbered 1 to 4. All four have staff behind them but only one is attending to a customer. My hopes of quick and efficient service wane. There are no Germans here. It is 11.21 and here is what I can see: the young guy running Desk 1 is looking at his screen. He is not typing or showing any other signs of life and looks bewildered; the guy at Desk 2 is actually handling a customer – but he looks stressed and panicky; the lady at Desk 3 is lounging and typing fluidly – a little too fluidly – perhaps an email to a friend or Twitter; the older fellow at Desk 4 has pulled his chair back and appears to be looking intently at his shoes and is grunting occasionally.
Nothing good can come of this.
We wait.
11.22 is now long gone. Three of the desks have still not serviced any customers, but Desk 2 is now available and shouts ‘Mr Thomas’ to summon his next victim. I say ‘shouts’, but it is more of a whisper. ‘Mr Thomas’ he tries again, this time a reedy whine. I can only hear this because I am seated closest to Desk 2 - I am fairly sure Mr Thomas cannot. Desk 2 tries again several times. At no stage does he consider getting off his ass and walking the ten metres across to the waiting area. I inform the folk near me of Desk 2’s need for a Mr Thomas and immediately a small, chubby man gets up and shuffles across to Desk 2.
We wait.
At long last Desk 3 has completed her epic email. She seems pleased. Perhaps she was planning a birthday. She pulls out a piece of paper from her work-pile and stares at it blankly. She looks up in the general direction of the waiting area and whispers ‘Mr Thomas.’ Desk 4, who has stopped staring at his shoes and is now fiddling with his footrest, leans across and tells Desk 3 that Mr Thomas is already at Desk 2. Not much slips passed Desk 4 it seems. For completeness, I should mention that Desk 1 is now absent. He got up, still bewildered, and wandered off some time ago.
Desk 3 leans over to Desk 2 who has just begun to deal with Mr Thomas. There is much nodding as both agree that Mr Thomas is indeed being seen. Desk 3 returns to her work-pile and flips through it unenthusiastically. In the waiting area, we all lean slightly forward, anticipating our names being called next. After a few moments, she starts a new email.
So we wait.
It is now 11.45. Desk 4 calls me forward, creatively adding an ‘S’ to the end of my surname. As I walk across, I realise the cheese smell is concentrated in the waiting area. I ponder the possibility that someone over there has actually died.
I take a seat at Desk 4. He has fixed his footrest and is sipping a cup of coffee while staring intently at his screen. He probably got the job based on such exemplary multi-tasking.
‘Have you been using the Internet in your job search?’
He still doesn’t look up from his screen. I assume he is looking at porn.
‘Yes’, I dully intone.
‘What does this say?’, he jabs a grubby finger at my form.
‘It says “speculative”.’ I reply.
His expression betrays total incomprehension.
After another 30 seconds of equally penetrating probing, my interview is over. I head for the exit and pass the Welcome podium, now vacant, and the two door monkeys who are deep in discussion about their new mobile phones. They do not open the door for me. I escape onto the street, relief quickly fading into dread as I consider the potential of future fortnightly interviews. As I begin my walk home, I spot Desk 1 standing with one of his colleagues a hundred yards or so up the street.
They are drinking Starbucks and laughing.
In the beginning I was filled with naïve optimism. I received an appointment card that informed me I was to attend the Job Centre at 11:22 every other Thursday.
11.22.
Not 11.20 or 11.25.
I found this encouraging and had visions of German-esque efficiency and customers being smoothly processed in 2 minute time slots.
Time passes. It is the day of my first visit.
I arrive at the Job Centre and am greeted by a double door. I see two door attendants standing inside. Neither moves to open the door for me, so I open the door myself. I smile at the door people: one man and one woman. I find I am smiling alone. No words are spoken so I continue on, triggering the female guard into action. She bars my path with a stumpy arm.
‘What are you here for?’ she snaps, jutting her chin out.
I explain that, like almost everyone else, I am here for my Job Centre interview. She seems suspicious, but gestures that I should move onward. Three metres ahead there is another woman leaning on a Welcome podium. I approach her and smile. I am still smiling alone. She musters up the energy to raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment of my presence. I realise that verbal communication skills are thin on the ground here, so I just wave my appointment card. She thumbs behind her in the direction of a large waiting area.
I walk on and find a spot on one of the seats. The seats are arranged in three sides of a square and face inwards. The area is fairly full, so we all sit in silence trying not to stare at each other. There is no interesting reading material available, but there is a slight smell of cheese in the air.
Across from the waiting area are four service desks numbered 1 to 4. All four have staff behind them but only one is attending to a customer. My hopes of quick and efficient service wane. There are no Germans here. It is 11.21 and here is what I can see: the young guy running Desk 1 is looking at his screen. He is not typing or showing any other signs of life and looks bewildered; the guy at Desk 2 is actually handling a customer – but he looks stressed and panicky; the lady at Desk 3 is lounging and typing fluidly – a little too fluidly – perhaps an email to a friend or Twitter; the older fellow at Desk 4 has pulled his chair back and appears to be looking intently at his shoes and is grunting occasionally.
Nothing good can come of this.
We wait.
11.22 is now long gone. Three of the desks have still not serviced any customers, but Desk 2 is now available and shouts ‘Mr Thomas’ to summon his next victim. I say ‘shouts’, but it is more of a whisper. ‘Mr Thomas’ he tries again, this time a reedy whine. I can only hear this because I am seated closest to Desk 2 - I am fairly sure Mr Thomas cannot. Desk 2 tries again several times. At no stage does he consider getting off his ass and walking the ten metres across to the waiting area. I inform the folk near me of Desk 2’s need for a Mr Thomas and immediately a small, chubby man gets up and shuffles across to Desk 2.
We wait.
At long last Desk 3 has completed her epic email. She seems pleased. Perhaps she was planning a birthday. She pulls out a piece of paper from her work-pile and stares at it blankly. She looks up in the general direction of the waiting area and whispers ‘Mr Thomas.’ Desk 4, who has stopped staring at his shoes and is now fiddling with his footrest, leans across and tells Desk 3 that Mr Thomas is already at Desk 2. Not much slips passed Desk 4 it seems. For completeness, I should mention that Desk 1 is now absent. He got up, still bewildered, and wandered off some time ago.
Desk 3 leans over to Desk 2 who has just begun to deal with Mr Thomas. There is much nodding as both agree that Mr Thomas is indeed being seen. Desk 3 returns to her work-pile and flips through it unenthusiastically. In the waiting area, we all lean slightly forward, anticipating our names being called next. After a few moments, she starts a new email.
So we wait.
It is now 11.45. Desk 4 calls me forward, creatively adding an ‘S’ to the end of my surname. As I walk across, I realise the cheese smell is concentrated in the waiting area. I ponder the possibility that someone over there has actually died.
I take a seat at Desk 4. He has fixed his footrest and is sipping a cup of coffee while staring intently at his screen. He probably got the job based on such exemplary multi-tasking.
‘Have you been using the Internet in your job search?’
He still doesn’t look up from his screen. I assume he is looking at porn.
‘Yes’, I dully intone.
‘What does this say?’, he jabs a grubby finger at my form.
‘It says “speculative”.’ I reply.
His expression betrays total incomprehension.
After another 30 seconds of equally penetrating probing, my interview is over. I head for the exit and pass the Welcome podium, now vacant, and the two door monkeys who are deep in discussion about their new mobile phones. They do not open the door for me. I escape onto the street, relief quickly fading into dread as I consider the potential of future fortnightly interviews. As I begin my walk home, I spot Desk 1 standing with one of his colleagues a hundred yards or so up the street.
They are drinking Starbucks and laughing.
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