After the lovely people open the job centre two minutes late we get ushered to the right area to await signing on. I'm starting to sympathise with the cows on the way to the slaughter house, but I'll never stop eating them - the delicious bastards!
One of the staff attending to signing on duties must be leaving today, she's got banners round her desk wishing her luck and boxes of chocolates - which the selfish bitch isn't sharing. She could make every jobseekers day by handing them a chocolate when they sign on, but no. She'll be the one crying when she's fat and spotty.
The decorations around her desk are horribly misplaced. This is a place of misery and suffering so we'll put up spangly banners. It'd be like turning up for your Uncle Bobs (the generic uncle) funeral when the vicar is due to leave for a new parish the next day so the church regulars have decorated his pulpit with helium balloons and stuffed animals clutching hearts. Vicious gits.
The greasy little boy who is going to deal with my signing on looks just about old enough to start shaving - and he's done a particularly bad job on it this morning. The clumps of hair left at random places on his face make him look like some kind of anti-animal experimentation poster. And he doesn't just look bad - he acts like a complete bastard.
Eye contact? No.
Call me by name? No.
Tell me that I can leave when he's asked all his questions? No.
The whole experience leaves me feeling like the statistic I am. Perhaps this is all geared towards grinding me down to take a second rate position? I suspect so.
My next treat to look forward to is an update to my job seekers agreement with Boss Eyes. Maybe if I run all that together I'll get a Star Wars character? Bosseyes. Yup. That's better. Wait until I try to explain to him the Software Test Engineer roles I've been applying for. Should be fun.
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