Signing On

Swallowing my pride and signing up for the dole – sorry, Jobseeker's Allowance - lived down to all my expectations. The staff had little time for me, the vicinity was littered with halflings in Lacoste trackies, and the woman who processed my application managed to project a perfect combination of hating her job and being relieved that she wasn't sat in my seat. One thing that shouldn't have surprised me though, especially given my addiction to stalking the BBC News website, was the amount of 'older' people claiming the dole. Amongst my fellow uni drop-outs and other forms of failure there was a prominent cast of over 40's, a crude reminder of the fact that I had chosen to leave education and pursue employment during the highest unemployment levels since 1994. For those who don't know me, this is just the kind of thing that I do. 


To receive Jobseeker's Allowance one must 'sign on' once a fortnight. This involves visiting the local Job Centre to explain the ways in which you have been searching for a job to a disbelieving clerk before being lectured and patronised for a bit by said clerk. Then it’s time to skulk home to constantly refresh your online bank account, waiting for the glorious moment when the government transfers your money through and you can treat yourself to a subway/pack of cigarettes/day at the penny arcade, or whatever your preference may be. As it happened, I was out of town for my first signing on session, meaning that I had to sign a form promising that I'd be willing to jump on the first train/plane/hobo's back to get home if Primark were to call offering me a job and asking me to start immediately. It's safe to say that I wasn't feeling optimistic about this happening, so I signed the form with the promise of phoning in at 9am on Tuesday to arrange my next appointment. 


Tuesday arrived and as my alarm sounded I was aware that I was seriously ill (whoever came up with the idea that “a cold” should always be preceded with the words “just a” obviously never had one!) But, like the trouper that I am, I picked up the phone and dialled the Job Centre… to be greeted with the busy tone. And for the rest of the morning, between doing an impersonation of a foghorn into tissues and sipping on honey and lemon drinks, I hit redial and listened to the busy tone again and again. By lunch time the effort had exhausted me and I crawled into bed and under my duvet to feel sorry for myself.


Wednesday brought better luck. The phone was answered on the first attempt and in my excitement I almost missed the demand for an explanation as to why I hadn't called the day before. Apparently I should have crawled out of my sick bed and paid the £2.10 bus fare (each way) to visit the Job Centre to make an appointment. So I crawled out of my sick bed and paid the £2.10 bus fare (each way) and visited the Job Centre where I completed a form declaring that I had been too ill the day before to crawl out of my sick bed and pay the £2.10 bus fare (each way) to visit the Job Centre


So all the traipsing back and forth to the Job Centre, paying fares I couldn't afford and filling forms that have at least ensured there will be no redundancies at the paper mills has paid off and I have now received my first payment of Job Seeker’s Allowance. The thing that I do feel I've taken away from this whole experience, apart from the money, is a colossal amount of motivation to find a job and to never have to attend the Job Centre again. 


Oh, I've also come away with the slight inkling that the cold, unwelcoming attitude of the staff at the Job Centre is all part of the government’s cunning plan to reduce the number of people signing on…