I’d forgotten how frustrating it could be looking for a job. It staggers me how rude people can be, particularly when the dread word ‘student’ escapes your lips. I am, of course, in rather an awkward position right now in that I can’t take a permanent job because I’ll be in university in just over a month’s time and I won’t lie to get a job. I hate the thought of putting anyone through the expense and time of recruiting and training, just to saunter off in September with a cheery ta’ra. So I’m in the market for a temporary job. Along with about a billion ffice:smarttags" />Cambridge students. Bastards.
A little while back, I donned my trusty Green Flashes (have you ever been in love with a pair of trainers? It’s a most uncomfortable, yet joyous experience) and took to the streets of this fair city. Not a single ‘Help Wanted’ sign. So I headed into a load of shops and handed in CVs. Do you have any idea what happens to the face of the manager of your average high street bookstore when an ex-departmental manager of a large games company cheerily petitions them for honest toil? This happens:
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Remarkably enough, not a one of them has offered me work. So I tried agencies. “Sorry, the students have really flooded the market.”, they say, shaking their perfectly lacquered hair-helmets. One helpful lady was so eager to demonstrate exactly how remote my chances of getting work were that she led me to a whiteboard on which was written about 4000 names of youngsters waiting for work.
I have a month until I can’t say it anymore, so I intend to make the most of it. Bastard students.
So I tried further afield. After all, I have a car, I can go where no student has gone before - perhaps as far as Huntingdon. Onto the JobCentre Plus website I go. It’s actually very good, the problem is the people who are advertising. Mostly more agencies, and excitingly, agencies who believe that ignoring emails from potential workers is by far the best policy for their company. Whatever happened to common courtesy? A polite refusal? Even a scornful laugh (particularly effective when delivered by letter, I find) would be something. The others I contacted became almost aggressive when I explained that I only needed temp work for the summer as I was to go back to university come September. Jealous, I suppose.
Finally, in sheer desperation, I handed in an application to my local Asda. I’m not proud and, frankly, I love slapping my own ass. ‘How long until you contact me about an interview?’, I asked hopefully. ‘Oh, at least two weeks. And then you’ll come in for a group interview in which you have to perform a group task and then another interview on your own and then you’ll get a decision. Anyway, we’ve recruited loads of students for the summer. You may have more luck in September.’
BASTARDS.
It seemed all hope was lost, but now it appears that Lady Luck has sniffed me out again. My landlady, of all people, has put me in touch with an agency that will have a couple of days of work a week (maybe more eventually should I prove my true worth) that will allow me to become, if only for a tantalisingly short time, a supermarket demonstrator. Glory, glory be.
So next time you see one of those girls down your local food shop, you know, the ones with the nifty hats who are trying to get you to sample the new no-fat chocolate vomit bars, think of me and smile...
