050509 cont…………….at jobclub

Not sure I’m actually all that convincing as a poor cow. One can only be reminded of Spaced, episode 1 series 2, when Daisy gets back from pastures new full of beans and amoeba as I, and goes to sign on. For those not blessed with the DVD, the way it goes is that she waltzes in the office hoping for a breezy time, when in fact she is wearing a traveller’s-special t-shirt and sports a tan. She leaves with nothing.

Firstly, I have to say that I do have some idea of how to carry myself in such an establishment. I was particularly proud of my costume for the affair: a 70s checked jumper with bow that if left to own devices revealed alluring cleavage. A pair of well-fitting h and m office trews. And a pair of chavvy diamante trainers. That’ll learn ‘em.

Well, Daisy is fictional and I may as well be, though that Alice-potion of truth reeks through my malnutritioned veins. So I’ve got all my documents with me and in a proud fashion I hand over my id.

My passport.

Shit.

Will the inoffensive/ineffective/unassuming/uninspiring/inconsequential/non-descript/neither here-nor-there admin clerk see any of my visas from the past ten years? See the stamps from Mumbai stating that a few days before I was in our lost embassy out east? A sticker glares angrily at me from the back of my otherwise unmarked passport (now peeled off) ’26 Jan 2009 Mumbai security’. Sound the alerts! But she smiles, (probably at the photo of me 19 and unscathed), and passes me on to a more social-workeresque colleague.

Jet lag kicks in and I slur my way through the jobseeking interview; trying to answer questions that seem arbitrary as best I can, critiquing the computer system, asking what happens if I get a start date – do I have to still join the cretins in the queue every other Friday? This, apparently, is abnormal behaviour, and rather than answering my deluded questions he comments,

“So is that your thing, then, finding loopholes and mistakes in the system?”

Good god, what have I done?! I was merely asking a realistic question. He told me to not tell them any of this info! Don’t get it, ain’t no good at the old DSS.

So, next jobclub day happens to be less than 12 hours after I get back from Cannes. Which, of course, is also a jobclub, but involves more garlic, but probably an equal amount of unemployed persons. I’ve worked out a less-than-foolproof plan of how to get there. Tick. It involves going straight there from Chelsea the next day, during rush hour. Cross. Probably with a fresh tan/burn. Cross. And my rucksack. Cross. And a French accent……….this ain’t going too well. And I need every god darn penny of that £64.25 – have you seen the price of fish paste?!

Turns out the Vonnegut book is sci-fi. I’m off to read it, ta ta!