It’s been a funny old year so far: ignominious, painful (gynaecologically as well as emotionally) and downright weird in parts. Over the past few months, The Fool has kept falling out of my Tarot deck. For once, I think its literal meaning may be pertinent, but being stripped back to nothing has been the crowning glory of a year of small humiliations. Ah well, it’s a reminder that when you’ve hit zero there is naught left but movement. Talking of nothing, check out The Constants of Nature by John D. Barrow.
I digress. St George’s day proved to be the haiku that summed it all up. Today I had to go and sign on for the first time in – well – I can’t actually remember. The City has imploded, and with it, all the jobs. Having lost my wonderfully flexible ongoing temp work at the beginning of April, I did what any sensible, unemployed person would do and buggered off to Ireland for a week, convinced that employment would be waiting for me when I got back.
Wrong.
So I figured that thirty years of paying into the system should not go unrewarded, and made my first tentative foray into the jungle of the UB40, sorry ES40JP. You couldn’t call a band that. No one would remember it. I was shocked to discover that you can make your first application online. I got all excited. Oooh, I thought, this internet thingy really has revolutionised the welfare state since I was a New Romantic.
Wrong again.
Following this application, someone incredibly pleasant and slightly robotic called and we spent 40 minutes ploughing through a host of numbers: age, national insurance, employee, mortgage accounts, bank statements, balances, shares, agency contacts, years of residency, IQ, inside leg. Then I was given an appointment at my local Job Centre. Which is how today started.
I decided I needed some fresh air and walked the mile and a half rather than take the bus. Bad move as I was first pissed on by the heavens and then the system. The security guy at the door was pleasant and wished me a good morning, which surprised me. Some people do actually try to inject a little joy and pride into their jobs. In this respect, I’d just like to make an honourable mention of the camp bloke who works the ticket barriers at North Greenwich tube. It’s so rare, it’s worth pointing out.
I was ushered to a seat to await my turn with the first interviewer. She was desperately struggling to get a coherent answer out of a claimant. “Have you been looking for work?” Grunt. “Have you checked the jobs on offer here today?” Grunt. “You do realise if you cannot provide evidence that you’re looking for work, your benefits will be stopped?” Grunt.
Meanwhile, someone else was trying to coax responses from a young woman who clearly spoke no English except for the word “children”. “Are you looking for work?” “Children”. You want to work with children? “Children.”
As I waited, I filled out the tedious form. When did I last have to tell anyone about my O’ Levels? There was also a section for interests and hobbies, presumably so that in the absence of any qualifications, they can fit you into a job you might actually like. I was tempted to write down Satanism and playing the ukulele, just to see what the Job Centre could come up with, but I resorted to the usual suspects of “computer literate” and “good communications skills”.
The first interviewer was amiable and well-meaning, clearly tired even though it was still only morning. We went through the form that I had verbally transmitted by phone. I asked about a couple of blanks and she responded in kind. “I don’t know. Just leave them.” I’d failed to take in my pay slips (mea culpa) and passport (their culpa). They forgot to mention that one. I was told to go home and bring these items back in the afternoon. I was then passed onto the next interviewer, Maria
She had prayers to Jesus stuck to her desk. After a blunt discourse about my obligations to take the first suitable full-time job available, she looked at the form and, glaring at me, prodded the blank spaces with her bejewelled talons. “It’s got to be filled out right or they’ll delay your payments. It’s going to be delayed by ten days anyway, so it’ll be even longer. Very annoying.”
I squirmed in my seat. “Well, I asked about the blanks and was told to just leave them.” She glared at me again. “But you can’t do that. They won’t pay you. You can’t leave blanks because they’ll come back to us then we have to contact you then you’ll have a delay in your payments. It’s really annoying when this happens.” I reiterated my sentence about the unforgivable administrative vacuum, at which point I thought she was going to hit me. “But you’ll delay your payment. It’s really annoying. You can’t do that. They’ll send it …”
The phrases rotated randomly. For one moment, I believed we were on the brink of revealing the nine billion names of God. Mercifully, we were interrupted by the telephone.
MARIA: Hello? What? [pause] Melanie. [pause] Melanie deals with it. Her name is Melanie [pause] She sits at the end. Look, I’m with a client.
Puts phone down.
MARIA: Sorry. Now here’s what happens next…
Phone rings
MARIA: Look I already told you. Melanie. [pause – getting irritated now] Melanie! Melanie! Sits at the end. I’m busy. I’m with a client, Brian.
Puts phone down.
MARIA: Sorry about that. Right, so when you next come in …
Phone rings
MARIA: I’M WITH A CLIENT!
Slams phone down then takes it off the hook.
MARIA: Sorry. Right so, here’s what happens next …
Enter Brian the floor manager, face like an angry cabbage patch doll and with all the charisma of a can of pilchards. He interrupts.
BRIAN: Why did you put the phone down on me?
MARIA: I’m with a client.
BRIAN: You put the phone down on me. Why did you put the phone down? What’s the name of the person dealing with the …
OFFICE CHORUS: Melanie! Melanie!
Exit Brian, pursued by bear.
Ah dignity. There comes a point when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Well, I’ve scrubbed loos and sold knickers for a living, and today I had to ask myself what my current bottom line is for shit jobs. Mostly, it’s been to be a bit bored in a cosy City office – so I guess I’ve had it easy compared to most. I’ve never flipped burgers or worked in a factory and most of my life has included substantial moments of interesting creativity. I used to have blackouts at my desk for some years while working in offices. They stopped once I had to knuckle down to save myself from drowning in my ex-partner’s debt. It’s amazing how a robust sense of survival can affect one’s physiology.
I laughed. The whole situation was ludicrous.
On my way out, a woman started shouting, “there’s construction work for jobs lasting two years, pass it on.” I briefly contemplated my abilities to heave a hod. I do like my tea strong. It could be start of a whole new career.
Sod’s law. As soon as I left the Job Centre, I got a call asking me to temp for three days, starting this afternoon. It was well-paid, I couldn’t refuse.
I dashed home on foot, washed my hair, found my passport and pay slips and trotted in high heels back to the Job Centre to queue up and request photocopies. No one wanted to do it.
Another manager, all smiles, nimble as a boxer, danced over to me. “I’ll find someone to help you.” Shiny Happy looked like someone who may have found Jesus but does not keep Him encaged in his large colon. He approached Brian, enthroned at his desk like an inert, white maggot. “I’m busy”, he scowled, placing his hands on the desk in defiance. Shiny Happy found another miserable but slightly more willing member of staff. It’s thirty seconds worth of photocopying. Anyone would think I had asked them to split the atom.
I ran out of there, late for my assignment. Just as I clambered on board a bendy bus, ten police stormed it in riot gear, pushed us against the walls, bludgeoned and strip searched us and demanded to see our Oyster cards. Well, I’m exaggerating, but they did make me even later, and in this game, time is money. Bastards.
I ran from Bishopsgate to Aldgate (balls of my feet now a mite sore), and noticed Morris Men dancing behind the bus depot. It was the first time I’d registered that it was St George’s Day (and the Bard’s birthday – not to mention Shirley Temple and Lee Majors). I may be perverse, but I’ve always found Morris Men rather sexy, probably because I associate them with someone I know who is a deeply masculine and attractive when he shakes his dingly danglies.
The job is OK. It pays well, the people are helpful, pleasant, and supply real coffee. The only trouble is, I will have worked more than sixteen hours this week, so I have to sign off. Mine’s probably a world record for the shortest official unemployment. Still, I should get about £36 and I’m damn well claiming it. It’s mine. I’ve worked twenty-five years for it.
How does one complete a St George’s day like this, replete with the best that Merrie Olde England can regurgitate for our delight? Where else? Sitting by a fire in a graveyard with fifteen thousand other Fools. I can say no more.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;
And let us all to meditation.
- Henry VI, Part II
Thank you for this. I feel amazed we all survive. C