Gainful Employment

It started in September with a temping job. A temping job in an extremely upmarket, famous large shop in London, in fact. Or, to be more precise, it all started with a lack of temping job in Exclusive Shop.

The recruitment consultant rang me and we exchanged the usual round of lies,
Her: “I think this job would be perfect for you…” Untrue.
Me: “I’m really keen to take it.” Untrue.
Her: “They really want people to come in and commit to at least a few months – I really don’t want to send someone in who will leave after a few weeks to do something better.”
Me: “What I really need is some regular income to pay the rent, so that sounds ideal…” Untrue.
Her: “This could be a really good opportunity for you.” Untrue.

It was the usual circle of lies, to be honest. If recruitment consultants aren’t going to tell me the truth then I’m certainly not wasting my energy (and potential weekly pay) telling them the truth of what I think about the awful positions they offer me. So we both coo-ed at each other repeatedly down the phone about a job that we both knew was one I was only considering because even as we spoke I had an empty flat in London that was costing me a squillion pounds a minute.

The job was on a reception desk on the upper floor. On your feet all day. Meeting and greeting clients (sounds like a job in a brothel, doesn’t it?) and ‘going the extra mile to make sure the wealthy customers feel really appreciated’. It sounded, to be frank, like the biggest load of irritating bollocks in the world. But after hassling employment agencies day and night, and emailing a million cvs, and fielding questions from people who heard I was moving to London ‘this week’ and wanted to know what my job was… I was, to be blunt, completely and entirely desperate.

I should have known that it wouldn’t be right for me when the recruitment consultant pursed up her pretty mouth at my feet. I was wearing a pair of ‘mules’. Smart black leather ones, recently polished. With a light grey suit. She had told me to wear a suit, but hadn’t specified any further.

“Ah.” she said, carefully, “Could you change into a pair of closed-toe shoes?”
“Well- no, you stupid woman!” I wanted to shout, “I’ve only just this moment stepped off the train from Bridgeton! You knew that! I spoke to you about this yesterday!” But of course you don’t say these things to recruitment consultants, it’s all like a bit of a conversational dance, so I smiled a kind of tight smile and said, “No. I only have this bag of things with me. My parents are bringing all my stuff to the new flat in District over the weekend. I have no other shoes in London.”
“Ah.” she said, again, “Ah. We-ell… never mind. That won’t matter.” Untrue. “I’ll just ring ahead and warn them that you are wearing open-toe shoes. Oh, and by the way, the ‘uniform’ there is that all staff wear all black. That’s not a problem, is it?”

Well, no, you fool. Not if you let me know before I leave home so I can bring black clothes with me. GAH!

Honestly. I’m not sure I ever came across the idea of ‘open toe’ shoes before, but I could certainly tell you all about it now. When I had my initial interview, and then my store clearance interview, it was all anyone could talk about. And no one was open about it, either. No one came out and said, ‘rumtumtugger, you look like a slut in those shoes. No one wants to see your bright pink, glittery, chipped toenail varnish. Even if you’re wearing tights. Put on some nice sensible M & S court shoes.’. Instead, they said things like, “O-k-a-y” in that kind of voice that says it’s not okay at all.

Either way, when they finally phoned me and said that they’d made a mistake, and they couldn’t get authorisation for temps, they needed permanent people (… was I interested in a permanent position? No. That was the first truthful comment I’d made)I was actualy very upset.

Not upset at the thought of not working somewhere where I’d be known as ‘open-toe-shoe-girl’. Not upset at the idea of not working where after a few days, I just know that someone would have come over and had a ‘quiet word’ about the fact that my roots need re-dying. Not upset at the thought of working where all the girls (these were not women. These were the kind of people who would call themselves ‘girls’ until the day they died) appeared to spend more money on clothes than I do on rent. But upset not to have a job.

Jack comforted me as I told him that I now had no job for Monday, and would never get a job, and did not deserve a job, and would have to move away from London and him…. he said to me that he was sure it would all work out for the best,
“You wouldn’t have enjoyed that job anyway…” true, “… and you’ll see- something far better will come up. You’ll look back on this and you’ll be so glad at how things turned out.”

…. to be continued.