Finding my employment circumstances changed due to the
Birmingham Post's synergy-related headcount adjustment, today's first entry in the diary was a 10.40am meeting at Handsworth Jobcentreplus.
All dolled up in my best satin and tat, looking every inch like Zorro, I took a deep breath and headed off to Soho Road to present myself to a Ms Badhan who, I was told, would help set me back on the road to gainful employment and prevent me from hanging around on street corners cadging money off passers-by.
It's been a long time since I last signed on; probably 20 years or so since I was laid-off at the
Stage and Television Today when my cravat didn't pass muster.
I still remember the Peckham dole office. A big purpose-built sausage factory with burly bouncers on the door.
The staff dealt with your claim from behind a steel mesh screen, treating dole monkeys with indifference at best, scorn at the worst.
Unlike some in my family, I'm not work-shy. I actually enjoy the daily grind, providing the job is challenging, the conditions are good and there's a Kit Kat or two in the sweetie vending machine.
In periods of unemployment in my youth, I always played the game and tried to get a job.
There were openings for journalists then and it was a noble profession. I would even widen my search and declare myself willing to work in the BBC Radiophonic Workshop at a push.
My ambition always impressed the uncivil servant behind the mesh barricade and I always got my dosh.
I did find the actual act of signing-on a rather soul-busting affair, queuing up with all sorts of no-marks and ne'er-do-wells for a few quid to see me through the next fortnight.
It was with these preconceptions that I turned up to my appointment.
Well, things have certainly changed in 20 years.
I suppose the clue's in the name
Jobcentreplus. Truly, this was no fortress of no hope for society's dregs.
The outside of the building is a drab slab, that's true – the only reminder of its earlier status.
Inside it was like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory only more garish.
Gone were the walls decorated with slips advertising minimum wage jobs. Indeed, there was no sign of any jobs at all. They are now kept on a computer and job-seekers access them from terminals on the jobshop floor where they can also play Call Of Duty, download U2 albums and look at boobies.
The bouncers have been replaced with helpers dressed as angels who greet you with a cheery "Yowsah!" before telling you they're here to make your wildest dreams come true.
Some were on roller skates, dishing out Sherbert Dabs.
It's all open-plan now and each job seeker has his or her own personal employment mentor who will give you a little cuddle if you're feeling blue before having a cosy chat about what you've done to find work this week.
The person whose job it was to send you to another office, five miles across town, only to be told you were in the right place to start with, is now some sort of dandy Master of Ceremonies, a cross between an Asda Greeter and Eddie Izzard. Their sole purpose in life is to spread a little happiness.
My interview was with someone called Phil who had been assigned my case on account of our astrological compatibility. He was OK. A bit too brown rice and sandals for my liking but I've been promised he'll have had a shave and be wearing Adidas next time I go and see him.
We went over my claim and he photocopied a few documents.
"Shall I photocopy my arse for you too? Some people are cheered up by that," he said.
"Thanks but no," I told him.
"You're the boss," he said and winked.
I was then passed over to my personal mentor who had obviously been told about my penchant for ladies with freckles as her face had already been seen-to by the make-up department.
We talked about how I would find a job and I explained that most journalists find that word of mouth is the best recruitment policy. It's who you know that matters.
I also said that maybe my days of being an inky hack are probably over as all newspapers are laying off people in a quite spectacular fashion.
We agreed that I would ask the mayor about any vacancies for a town cryer, spend a few hours on the internet blogging and stuff and generally pester any mates for work.
I don't even have to go back once a fortnight to sign on as I'm applying for Income Support on account of being a lonely parent.
The money will be paid into my bank account regularly and, though it will barely pay for my biscuit bill, it's nice to have it.
I'll also get help with council tax, school dinners, child care and milk tokens. How cool is that?
Although this is only a temporary glitch in my ambitions for global media domination, I'm going to learn from the situation and positively embrace it. It will do me good to mix with people less fortunate than myself.
Tomorrow I'm going to find a job.
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