Free To Do As You’re Told.
It’s been a while since I mentioned The Work Programme, partly because they fucked me over so badly last time they allowed me some leeway in the months it took to try and sort out all the shit I was left in. Then they changed my advisor.
That was a fortnight before Easter, and that holiday meant it was a month before I was due back. My new advisor had booked me in to see him on Monday past, a day he’d taken off as annual leave, and so I saw somebody else new to me. We went through the usual rigmarole of me having to provide thirty years of back-story to someone who will never deal with my case again, and I told him that I have accepted that the time is right to sell off my record collection. He tried to discourage me.
The truth is, my music tastes have changed considerably over the past ten years, and as it has been in storage for the past seven years my collection is of more use to me as collateral. At current market rates (by which I mean I’ve started watching ebay auctions to see what the stuff I have is going for), it will comfortably fund the driving licence that I feel will help make me infinitely more employable. There’s no way I’ll be able to afford let alone run a car any time in the near future, but at least if I have the Driving Licence Required by so many positions that I see advertised I will be able to apply. It’s a start.
He tried to dissuade me, though. “There must be other options for you, I don’t like to think of you having to sell something that obviously means a lot.”
“Do you know of any funding that would cover my driving?”
He snorted a laugh and said it’s hard enough to even get a couple of hundred quid in funding. I know this from innumerable past advisors. They can’t help. He was telling me I need to make myself more employable, and also telling me not to sell my belongings to do so, but couldn’t offer any alternatives to the one I suggested. He was nice enough, but completely fucking useless. They all are, hands tied by red tape and underfunding – if you’re smart and educated, they don’t know what to do with you.
He gestured to a flier on the desk in front of me, a Jobs Fair they are holding this Friday (tomorrow). “Great Opportunity!” it tells me in big letters, “We are holding a Jobs Fair. Join us.”
He explained that this will be my chance to meet a whole host of employers in various sectors, where I’ll get the chance to talk to them and they’ll get the chance to talk to me. I can fill in applications, give them my CV, and – my! – how wonderful and lovely it will all be. I expect the usual: offers of zero-hour contracts; short employment times; agency work (that last one is what fucked me previously, though all cause problems in a system not geared to cope with them); “Sorry, you’re over-qualified/under-qualified/can’t drive.” I think he sensed my cynicism, because he spelled it out for me – “I’m trying to make this sound like a really positive thing for you, because what I didn’t say is, it’s mandatory. You have to go.”
That’s the point when I realised that “Join us” wasn’t an invitation, it was an order. Suits me, I’m bored of unemployment to the point that I’ve actually sat down and photographed nearly everything I own that has “Iron Maiden” printed on it. That was the band I followed obsessively and compulsively for most of my teenage years and some of my early twenties. If they released it, I have it, usually in multiples and some of it signed. I feel a strange sense of detachment looking through every single item (of about 700) that I spent years of time, money, and effort accumulating. It used to be so treasured, a source of pride, but looking at it all now, after everything that has happened in the intervening years to change my perspective, attitude, and demeanour, I can barely relate to it. Nor to the person I was then. It’s sad, in a way, that all this that meant and symbolised so much now means so little.
It hit home the other day, when I was photographing all the magazine clippings that I cut out and kept – full page adverts, multi-page features, half-page articles, and everything else all the way down to clippings that are literally the size of my thumbnail. What struck me, looking at this vast scrap collection I have amassed, is that I can think of no clearer indication that I didn’t know nearly enough women in my formative years.
If anyone wants to just give me two-and-a-half grand for the lot, and save me faffing about with ebay for the next few months, please let me know. Imagine something they released, and I have it. Possibly signed. Some of it so rare I’ve never seen another one out there. Bargain. Ideal present for any socially-inadequate teens you may know.
Like I said, it makes me a wee bit sad that I feel this way, given how much of my life it represents. At the same time, it’s been a long while coming. And I’m enjoying the nostalgia aspect of going through it all one final time, to document it as fully as I can before selling it off. So yeah, I’m going to go and have a drink now. And then maybe go to bed, because I have to get up early tomorrow and attend a jobs fair.
At this rate, I might ask them if they have any vacancies going for archivists.