Good news first; we got a Wii. My girlfriend rang me from work mid-day to tell me that she’d got a Wii plus four or so games from eBay; at a price of course.
Everywhere around the UK is completely sold out and since we obviously have no patience, I think it was a good buy. Although Victoria got her yearly bonus, which funded our impulsive buy, its not like we are rolling in money. Quite the opposite… which leads me to the bad news: The “dole” office and their “Jobseekers allowance”,ie: the arsehole of bureaucracy.
I’ve never claimed before.. well actually that’s a lie, I’ve tried un-successfully to claim before, back in October when I couldn’t afford to buy a pack of smokes, never mind pay off my huge student debt and pay my rent. The dole office completely fucked it up however. They messed my claim up, messed my appointment up and got me so angry that I eventually gave up trying – or you could say – I decided to save myself all the emotional turmoil and therefore rescued myself from an impending nervous breakdown.
Hah – okay, slight exaggeration perhaps. Still, these people are idiots.
This time around I decided to fill the endlessly monotonous forms in online, therefore sparing myself the ordeal of having to have an actual conversation with a person/android from their office… right? Wrong. I got a call back yesterday from a very slow talking welsh woman who sounded almost as bored with the words coming out of her mouth as I was. ‘What does your girlfriend earn a year?’, ‘What’s her phone number?’ and ‘What’s her National Insurance number?’. Now I’m sorry, but what has my partners details got to do with anything? We live together sure, but we’re not in a civil partnership and heh, it really shouldn’t be her responsibility to support me financially – even if she’d like too. Anyway, whatever, I give her the information and can’t believe my luck when she tells me that there’s an interview slot available the next morning. Last time I had to wait over a month, only to find out that they hadn’t booked me in correctly. Are they brain-dead? Quite possibly.
I sit across from her small mediocre table and answer her questions the best I can. I sign a Jobseekers form that states that I will actively look for work and that I won’t turn down any reasonable job offer. (I don’t think weed dealer would count). She smiles insincerely, I shake her hand insincerely, and I get the hell out of there. I wander to the nearest park that isn’t crawling with businessmen out on their lunch break and roll a big fat spliff, revelling in the jobs centres achievement, in that they didn’t fuck it up this time. My thoughts are clouded by my mobile ringing, “fuck the pain away, fuck the pain away” it sings. I answer. It’s the job centre informing me that they accidentally forgot to get me to sign some (pointless) form. I sigh as I take a long drag from my ‘special cigarette’. Then they inform me that I will have to come back in to sign it, but that I will need to wait for a call from ‘Z’ soul-destroyer to arrange another interview. Oh-my-God.
Fuck the jobcentre – I’m getting my Wii tomorrow. *smirk*.
