Feeling Doleful

Today I made my fortnightly pilgrimage to my local job centre to sign on. Other than the accompanying dip in self-worth, these trips are generally uneventful (and that's the way I like it - who knows what kind of ruccus could occur if all us no-hopers decided to riot? Actually that could be fun - note to self: start job seeker ruccus).

But today was different from the norm. I was shaken from my characteristic sleepy ennui by a terrifying moment of clarity: I HAVE SPENT TOO LONG ON THE DOLE! The trigger for this realisation? One of the job centre's 'personal advisors' called out 'Mr Yunice?' to the assembled motley crew of dole bludgers waiting to sign on. 'I know that name from somewhere!' I thought to myself, racking my brains for an image of the aforementioned Mr Yunice - a family friend or school mate fallen on hard times perhaps? A be-tracksuited chav scuttled into sight and after recognising his pimply face, I realised where I knew him from - THE JOB CENTRE!!!!!!! Being on second-name terms with my fellow spongers just takes the biscuit and is further proof of what I already know - I NEED to get a job and fast.

Until this magical day comes, I will continue to don my Job Centre Uniform every two weeks. My job centre uniform is a highly important element in my trips to the centre, it helps me to get into character. It is composed of the following elements: baggy grey tracksuit, pyjama top, baggy jumper, old trainers topped with a trampy parka coat with fake fur hood. The hood is important, it must be worn up and erect over the head for as long as possible to achieve a cheap thrill and sense of danger.

Wearing a hood may not seem dangerous to job centre virgins but they would be wrong - the wearing of hoods inside the job centre is banned and probably illegal. Wearing one is therefore a mini rebellion and a means of baiting the burly job centre bouncers, who will inevitably trundle over and tell the hooded hoodlum 'No hoods allowed in here mate' (my job centre uniform is a little de-feminising I must admit). I find this anti-hood rule baffling; have these bouncers forgotten we're all supposed to hug a hoody??

Maybe one dole-day I will learn Mr Yunice's first name. Maybe one dole-day I will initiate some kind of verbal interaction between myself and my fellow freeloaders, rather than us all pretending to be invisible both to ourselves and to each other in a pathetic attempt to cling on to dignity. We can swap signing-on stories or discuss the terrible local jobs offered up by the job search machines (apparently the scientific term for these hunks of crap is: vacancy search terminals). Speaking of which, here's a round up of some of today's local jobs spawned up by a flirt with the terminals (I cannot promise you that these roles are still vacant, any interested party should contact their local job centre. Helpful link: http://www.jobcentreplus.gov.uk/JCP/index.html):

LOVELY LOCAL JOBS COURTESY OF MY LOVELY LOCAL JOB CENTRE*

1) Gutter cleaner
2) Santa Claus (I have a hunch this is a system error and the role may no longer be active)
3) Anti-social Behaviour Officer ("No, you cannot stay in and watch the entire box-set of Family Guy" shouted the Anti-Social Behaviour Officer to the poor couch potato)
4) Scissor lift operator (I find this mildly funny as I have no idea what it means)
5) Urgent leaflet distributor (not sure whether the post was meant to read Urgent - Leaflet distributor needed or whether you will be dealing with highly important political leaflets but given it involves working for my crummy local area, I would hazard a bet it's the former)

* Unlike journo jobs, these are paid roles and by paid I mean actual money, not magic beans.

Mind Your P's and Q's

I am one of those pathetic people with a compulsive need to be liked. It therefore crushes my soul when strangers commit random acts of rudeness. When this occurs (and it does, all too frequently) I spiral into a three-step emotional journey of bewilderment, hurt and rage.

Take this morning, for example. I was sitting on the bus when the girl next to me started fidgeting with her bag. Concluding that she wished to remove herself from the bus, I promptly rose to my feet and made way for her, generously flashing her a polite smile as I did so. Rather than make any eye contact, smile back, or even mutter 'thank you' in the style of well-mannered Londoners, she pushed past me with a scowl.

I sat back down feeling slightly shrunken and unsavoury and watched her figure recede as she stomped off into the chaos of Whitehall this morning. We all have bad days when we resent the close physical proximity with other commuters imposed on us by London transport but does nobody believe in manners anymore?

As I pondered upon this, I remembered my recent work experience at a popular weekly celebrity magazine. I had turned up all a-brim with bubbliness and journalistic enthusiasm, excited at the prospect of writing seedy exposes of the latest c'leb scandals.

When I arrived, I was given a thick booklet with 'Work Experience Job Description' on it, which listed tea making, distributing the post (and even opening the post, variety is the spice of life) re-filling the stationary cupboard and doing the office 'breakfast run' as my sole duties. In the first hour, I maintained a perky cheerfulness, delivering the post to each person with a little 'hello' or 'here's your post' or some other introduction, since according to my booklet; "giving out the post is a really great way of getting your face known in the office".

The problem was, despite my efforts at friendliness, nobody was even looking at my face. My face seemed to be an offensive foreign object. And my efforts at friendliness just made them more uncomfortable. Even when I lugged huge parcels from one side of the office to another for the Lifestyle team, no one offered any acknowledgment. It was if I was invisible, or at best, a slightly distasteful smell wafting across their territory. It made me wonder why people are so afraid of human contact and so suspicious of each other? Or is it just extreme laziness?

I came close to breaking-point on that first morning. I took a letter to somebody's desk, which according to my floor plan made her the rightful recipient of that post. She ignored my hello, looked at the letter and tossed it aside with a slight curl of the lip. "I'm not Juliette Readly" she snarled, without pointing me in the direction of the genuine Juliette.

As I walked off, I couldn't help muttering two expletives between clenched teeth. This was the only unmannerly outburst I allowed myself during that entire awful week. My restraint was tested throughout my time there, largely because of the general attitude of contempt displayed towards the work experience. Tasks such as the daily collection of the entire office's supply of papers and magazines (arm-destroying parcels which had to be lugged back to the 3rd floor of the office from a local newsagents) and having to pick up the editor's dinner at 6pm on a Friday evening also made me want to unleash some rudery but I somehow managed to keep a grip on decorum.

Taking positive action instead of taking a gun into the office, I called a talk with the editorial assistant and explained that I was there to gain journalistic experience and if I couldn't do any writing at all I would have to leave. This tactic worked and I ended up writing two articles which were published on the magazine's website.

Having graduated, I'm now back working for the online team (albeit unpaid, which I grant, is quite an impediment but seems to be the way it works) and have already had about twenty stories published on the website.

Proof that manners don't just make people happy, they also help to get your foot in the door.

A mannerly way of demanding payment for my labour? I'm still working on that.

Signing on to a bleak future?

"So what job do you want to do love?" asked Bev, my 'personal advisor' at the JobCentre Plus, peering at me through her tortoiseshell spectacles.
"I want to be a journalist."
"Yes dear, but I need three types of work to put on the form."
"Erm, put editorial assistant, reporter and sub-editor then."
Bev took her spectacles off and scowled at me.
"We need three types of work because that way They think it's more likely you will get a job. If you don't put three down, you might not get your job seekers allowance."

I scowled back. Fresh from noSWeat journalism college, all a-fire with a single-hearted desire to make it as a hack, Bev just didn't seem to be getting me. Having survived a year of working in healthcare PR, a job so dire I could feel little slices of my soul evaporating day by day, I was not prepared to switch career allegiances.

Bev cleared her throat and attempted a kind smile.
"Look dearie, all the journalists are in here at the moment. We've had people from the Sun, the Daily Mirror, they are all signing on love. There aren't any jobs in journalism at the moment."

I crumpled a little and looked around at the fellow no-hopers sitting patiently on the suprisingly dashing red sofas. It dawned upon me that the whole building was full of deliberately bright colours - vivid purples, lime greens and vomit orange. I suppose it would be dangerous to sit the down-and-outs on grey furniture, it would probably be the last straw and cause us no-hopers to slash our throats with the plastic folder of our claims booklet.

I sighed and looked back at Bev.
"I worked in healthcare PR" I offered, glumly. "I suppose you can put me down for that."
Result! Bev smiled and tapped away on her keyboard.
I left the JobCentre Plus a broken woman. If highly employable journos from the nationals were queuing up alongside me to claim the weekly 60 quid dole money, what chance did a wannabe hack like me have?

In my hands, I clutched two print-outs from the odd little machines inside the centre. I looked forward to sharing my new career prospects with my parents: 'Chimney Cleaner' and 'Dog Boarder'. Whilst I printed the former just because it made me laugh, I was actually quite optimistic about my prospects as a dog nanny. Whoever knew you could earn £50-£100 a week, just for letting a furry four-legged friend share your home? I could be onto something here.