4:54 p.m. - 2002-06-22
What have I got myself into? Part 3
Mmmm...nicotine. And tea. Who needs coffee when there is tea, I ask you?
Ahem, where was I?
Ah yes, the job. The job sucks. I think I've covered that mostly. On to other things.
When I arrive here in the homeland (Canada is, after all, a commonwealth country), I findout that I need to get a "National Insurance Number" in order to work. The NI#, as it is fondly referred to, is the equivilant to a Social Insurance Number. It gives me a tax code, and officially places me in the British Government Working Beaurocracy. As with most government things, it's a pain to get. And anyone who knows about my recent experience with the Ontario government knows that I'm not too fond of government agencies at the moment. At once, I'm just not looking forward to this process.
So, once I get my (sucky) job, Eddy tells me I have to sort out getting my NI# as soon as possible. Fair enough. I find the office I'm supposed to go to (or thought I was supposed to go to) on the internet, and one fine Monday morning (I don't work Monday lunch shifts) I begin the journey of setting myself up as an official British worker.
This is the way it's supposed to go: I make an appointment for an interview with an agent of the Department of Works and Pensions (or something similar to that) and bring along various pieces of evidence that I have a work permit, I have a residence and that I'm employed. Doesn't sound like much of a problem, does it?
This is the way it went: I went to the office in the morning and was told that I had the wrong office for the area I lived in. The guy at the counter gave me the address of where I was supposed to go (or where he thought I was supposed to go) and I went there. I take a number to be served. I have number 73. They are currently serving 31. While waiting, I notice a memo on the wall saying that those who are applying for a NI# should call the following number instead of going into the office. Ok, fine. I take down the number, track down a payphone and call the number. They inform me that I've gone to the wrong office and that I should have gone to one that is just up the street from the original office I went to. (through clenched teeth) Great. Here I go.
When I get there, I'm informed that I shouldn't have come in person to the office and that I need to call a different number to set up an interview. I could, if I were so inclined, wait around for an indeterminant amount of time to see an agent and probably be informed of the same thing...or make the call. I opt to take the sheet he is offering me which gives the number I'm supposed to call. I track down a payphone and make the call (note: I'm quickly running out of money, let alone change for the phone).
I finally get a woman on the phone who is willing to set up an interview for me (Sweet jesus, I'm saved!). It takes 5 minutes for her to spell my name correctly as she insists on confusing the letter 'l' with the letter 'o'. Considering I have three ls in my name, the initial portion of the phone call was not an easy task and was quickly eating up my few remaining coins for the phone. The process of recording my address and other details proves to be slightly (SLIGHTLY) less time-consuming and by the end I officially have an interview in two weeks.
I should point out that this was actually a bit of a miracle, and one of the few things that happened that denoted a tiny amount of luck. I've heard stories of people waiting months to get an interview, so my two week wait was impressive. I took this small bit of fortune and blew it way out of proportion in order to make myself feel better about the whole situation. Yay me!
That was short lived.
The process of getting all my "evidence" wasn't quite so difficult. I had to get a letter from my employer, to prove that I was actually employed, which Eddy did promptly supply. It was a form letter that he copied on a fax machine. He told me to write my name on it (which I, apparenty, did wrong - not kidding), then he signed it and I put it in safe keeping. The letter just said that I had been offered employment and that they needed to get my NI#. The letter quite amusingly referred to me as "he" rather than "she", which I thought funny. But it was so obviously a form letter that I figured it would do for the government people. The rest was easy; a letter from John stating that I'm living with him and a couple of utility/phone bills to prove he actually lived at the address that I was claiming was his, a payslip or two, and of course my passport and work permit. I had all of it and was ready to go.
Today I had the interview at 2:15 pm (that's 14:15 British time...I'm still getting used to the 24 hour clock), and as you might have guessed, it was the afforemention ungratifying experience of the day.
Looking back, though, I think ungratifying is the wrong word. Frustrating, infuriating, annoying, disappointing: all of these words just don't quite capture what I was feeling when I walked out of that office building. Put them all together, and you might have it - unfrusfuriatannoydisappointing. Well, maybe not, but I was bloody well pissed off (notice the Britishism in there?).
You see, the thing that I thought so amusing before (the he/she thing) proved to be a bit of an issue with the government people. Apparently, it made it look as if I had forged/stolen/whatever the letter from some unknown man. Thus, it would not be acceptable to the people at the head office who would be reviewing all my "evidence".
"ARE YOU KIDDING?"
It's a form letter, signed by my boss, with an official looking rubber stamp from the Globe Restaurant/Pub proving that I have a job. What &#@�ing difference does it really make if it says "he" instead of "she". Are you people really that particular about pro-nouns? Is the British metal-rod-stuck-up-my-arse-kind-of-reserved-and-anal stereotype really that prevalent? Are you *!@#ing me?
Apparently not.
The preceding rant never actually left my lips at the office, but it did (along with some other profanities and generally bad thoughts about the dickhead I was dealing with) wander around my head for the bus ride back to the flat.
And now I'm left with the question of what to do now. A question I've been thinking about for, say, three weeks now and which is constantly coming up in different contexts (about my job, about getting a flat, about getting a new job, etc.) but always ending up in the big, general context (should I stay or should I go?).
More on that when I return.
