The Job Centre is grey. Much like the attitudes of the workers. The carpets are grey, the tables are grey, the seats are grey, the sofa's are grey, grey, grey, grey. It is a very grey affair. The only other visible colour are little flashes of blue, as though mirroring the moods of the 'job seekers'.
I am greeted at the door by a little man that looks so much like a mole in glasses I have to physically hold my breath and think about famine and the latest Shia law to stop myself from laughing. Mole man shows me to a desk, behind it sits the fattest man I've ever seen, who looks like a walrus in a very tight shirt. I reason that I'm actually at the zoo and get on with it.
Walrus man drones on, talking fast, and accepting my silence as acknowledgment- years of listening to Twista didn't prepare me for this man-marine-mammal and his maniacal speaking speed. He takes some photocopies of my passport, letters from the student loans company and a couple of bank statements, he then gives me a booklet and asks me to read and sign (every page), which I do while he attempts to make a few jokes, which I mostly ignore, until I look up at him and realise that it really isn't often that an animal tells me knock knock jokes, so I should appreciate it while it lasts.
The little mole man scuttles forward and asks me to go and sit in another section and wait for part two- he then frowns at his colleague as though he often tries to move to benefit claiming ladies with his wide repertoire of shit jokes.
So I find a seat, nobody to my left and nobody to my right- for about a second. A man slopes over who is clearly not seeking a job and is in actual fact seeking shelter, he attempts to suck up the warmth coming from my body and then sits, stares, and promptly falls asleep. The seat to my left is then taken by a man, who sits tapping his feet, tapping his fingers, and potentially tapping his veins ready for his next fix.
There is something so sad about this place, whether it be just this job centre, or all of them I couldn't say. Hopelessness hangs in the air, like Christmas decorations, still adorning your front room in May. By this point I am stressed as hell, I have a physio appointment at 1.30pm, at a hospital which is 4o minutes away from my current location. Its 12.20pm, and I am about to turn into one of the job centre mass who shout about waiting lines, and wastes of time, whilst highlighting the fact that they have very busy lives, and can't hang around here all day- obviously when they get seated to sign on one reverts back to 'yes, yes, free all day everyday, of course I tell potential employers this.'
The closest desk to my current seat has a man sitting behind it, who GENUINELY looks like a leopard but if I touch anymore on the animal thing I think you might stop reading this, so I'll leave it there. He is talking to a woman, who is presentable, well spoken and definitely ten years older than him. He is speaking to her in an angry and condescending tone, apparently she hasn't signed up to the NVQ course he had most recently advised her about. His tone is harsh, way harsh actually, and I assume he realised this because he suddenly switched it to intensive flirtation. I was shocked at the change, the woman on the other hand took it in her stride. I felt embarrassed being sat so close to them, but I then realised her giggles would have been heard from a bus stop in Peckham, so I needn't worry.
I look around and everyone looks sad, and I wonder why, at it's most basic level JSA is free money. On a deeper level though, it is admitting that you are unemployed, you can't get a job, you are in a 'desperate' situation, you are one of these benefit claiming state thieves who The Sun writes about so regularly, with the disdain I can imagine the Queen Mother would show at the idea of being taken to Bagel King for dinner. If I was a conspiracy theorist, (which I'm not, not really anyway, way-too-lazy) I'd say that, in order to keep one in their rightful place, jobless, living on benefits and never amounting to much more than that then job centre is the perfect place to send them. It's set out as something you almost should be ashamed of, the staff don't celebrate the skills of the job seekers, don't go over cv's, don't give you goals, or hope or anything other than £50 a week actually. To continue to claim you have to go back every two weeks and prove that you have done three things in the last fortnight to aid getting a job. THREE FUCKING THINGS. If you only do six things a month to aid you getting work, you definitely don't want a job.
Aside from my inner musings, there is a man at the desk to my right. He is wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase. He is probably about thirty, and he talks excitedly, hopefully, desperately- the suit stands as a visual confirmation that he WANTS THIS. The man behind the desk, who looks like Ronnie's baby father on Eastenders, and doesn't look like an animal (hooray!!...Zoo keeper perhaps?) is suggesting he claim JSA, while he's looking for work- I don't want it, he says, I just want help to find another job. I nearly die on the spot. I love him. Lol.
I have to leave, its all taking too long, and the physio charges if you don't turn up- I tell mole man I'll be back tomorrow morning at 9am.
So its, tomorrow, well today, but tomorrow, if you're reading about yesterday- its 9am- I'm at the door, trying to navigate my way in to the office, but am being stopped at the door by the 'meet and greet' guy, who I originally mistook as jovial, turns out, after fifteen minute's observation, he's just a bit crazy (In this fifteen minutes he's asked to look at my blackberry and iPod three times, each time being carted away by someone with an apologetic look on their face).
I'm sitting, waiting, I've been here an hour, seems they are doing some staff training this morning so the wait will be longer than yesterday's- I don't mind though, I came prepared- today, I came dressed in grey.
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