Phoning it in...

            Once a month, as part of my Work Programme commitment while I'm claiming Employment and Support Allowance, I have to go to a government-appointed agency in C********y for a 121.  When I was got my first appointment letter, I had frightening visions of an Orwellian interrogation.  I rang up to ask what a 121 was.

            'A one-to-one review,' the woman replied, with barely disguised incredulity.

            On my first 121 - which actually took place in a crowded office, with other people listening in nearby - my assigned Job Coach's first question was:

            'Can you explain to me what's wrong with you?'

            What's wrong with me?

            They're supposed to help me to look for work while I'm recovering from my illness.  But the whole thing's a joke.  A box-ticking exercise for them.  They ask me what I've been doing, what jobs I've been going for, interview feedback - that kind of thing.  It's a forty-minute bus journey to get there (fares reimbursed) for a ten-minute chat.  It's a horrible, soulless place.  On the walls, there are cod-inspirational slogans like

            There's a job out there with your name on it. 

            Like people say about bullets.

            Sometimes, they make suggestions about vacancies that might interest me.

            'There's a company wants a cleaner.  Ten hours a week.'

            'It's in C********y.  All my pay will go on travel.'

            'It's just a suggestion.  It's a job.'

            If they find me a job, they get performance points.  It probably helps them when they come to tender for the next contract.

            I dread going there.  It makes me feel worse, if anything.  Worthless.

*

            Last time I went, my usual Job Coach wasn't there.  She'd been promoted to another branch.  She couldn't have been much more than 22.  The chap I saw instead, Lee, gave me my ten minutes and told me he'd be my Coach from now on.  He was a bit older.  24, maybe.  He looked like a trainee estate agent: gelled spikes, pointy-toed shoes, power dressing by Matalan.  He didn't know anything about me or my condition, so spent some time checking things on my record.  He discovered my address details hadn't been updated on the system following my move - even though I reported it at the time, and have received mail from them at this address.  The previous coach either hadn't bothered to do it, or had forgotten or made a mistake.  I like to give the benefit of the doubt - but I honestly don't know how it is with these people.  I know I always feel like a malingerer whenever I'm there.  Just a vibe I get.  

            Yesterday, when I arrived, Lee wasn't there.  One of the other Coaches looked across at me. 

            'Who are you here to see?'

            'Lee.'

            'Oh... Lee's gone for a walk. Take a seat. He won't be long.'

            I sat for ten minutes.  2 o'clock, my appointment time, came and went.

            'I'm sure he won't be long,' she said.

            Then her phone rang.  She picked it up, chatted a moment, then I heard her say

            'You've got one here.'

            She asked me my name.  She relayed it.  Then she passed me the receiver.

            'Lee said he'd talk to you.'

            I took the receiver.

            Lee said  'What are you there for?'

            I told him.  Monthly Review.  As booked.  In the background, I could hear voices, glasses tinkling, music.  It sounded like he was in a pub.

            'Oh right.  Okay, then.  How's it been going?'

            I said I was continuing with the voluntary job two days a week.  I told him I was going to the Shaw Trust's Job Club every Thursday.  I told him...

            'Ah, I've got you,' he interrupted.  'I know who you are now.  Okay.  Carry on.'

            I told him about the jobs I'd applied for.  I told him about some feedback I'd received from an interview.  I told him I'd had a few bad days - but I was keeping it together.

            'Okay,' he said. 'When I get back, I'll update your notes.  I'll see you again in a month's time, then.  I'll write to you with a new appointment.'

            I gave the receiver back to his colleague, then went out to the reception desk to collect my fare reimbursement.

            I waited there for a few minutes.  Finally, another Job Coach looked over.

            'What are you waiting for?'  she said, stiffly.

            I held up my bus ticket.

            'Take a seat.  When I've finished with this person, I'll do it.'

            I waited until she'd dealt with the chap.  About another ten minutes.  Lee was still at the pub.

            She finally came and got the cash box out.  It was full of money.  About £100 in notes and £50 in coins of all denominations.  It was £5.90 that she had to give me.

            I offered her a 10p.  'Here we are... if you give me £6.  Save your silver.'

            She looked at my 10p like it was a turd.

            'I'm not allowed to do that,' she said.  'I have to give you the right money.'

            'But it will be the right money.  You give me £6 and I give you 10p change.'

            She looked at the turd again.

            'I can't do that.  It has to be done this way.  It has to be the right money, or I'll get into trouble.'

            She gave me my £5.90.  A fiver, 50p, 20p, two 10ps. 

            And I was off.

*

            Today, I was telling my therapist about it.  She was horrified.

            'How did it make you feel?' she asked.

            I shrugged.

            'Didn't it make you feel outraged?'

            To be honest, I hadn't really thought about it.

            What does that say?  About me?  And about them?

            'Didn't it make you feel as if you didn't matter?'

            I suppose I could have looked at it like that.  But I didn't.

            'No,' I said.  'To be honest... I don't expect anything else.  That seems to be how it is.'

            My Job Coach is out at the pub during our booked session.

            His colleague Job Coach can't even do basic arithmetic.

            Meanwhile, I'm more than twice their age and have worked all my life - even though I failed CSE Maths at school.  My head's in a mess and I don't even know if I can face work again.

            Is this what I've come to?

            Or is this what the country has come to?