Category: job hunting

Cloudy in London today

So it’s Saturday again. Not that that means anything to me, really. To a job hunter, every day is the same. Filled with hope, opportunity and a balancing dose of absolute anxiety.

Here I am, sat at the laptop yet again, scouring cyberspace for that one job that’s going to change everything for me. For us. And keep us in London. No pressure.

If I send at least one application a day – or so – there is nothing much more I can do. Except pray.

As I stare out of the window of the flat, I have already seen two stripped-off Londoners walking along the street! And it’s not that warm today. One emerged from the shower block in the small dock we overlook, his hirsute frame clad only in a towel, wrapped around his waist. Another was walking along the street on the other side of the dock, shirt in hand. Eeeuw.

It’s so strange to think that we’re heading towards autumn in London. At this time of year, in South Africa where I come from, it’s rose-pruning time, some spring flowers are starting to show their heads, there’s an optimism and a gentle floral fragrance in the air, and the hope of warm weather and sunshine overwhelm us all, as we think about Christmas, end of year holidays, and plans for the new year. The hope of spring is quite overshadowed for me by the melancholy of the coming autumn in the north. Maybe it’s also how I’m feeling today.

Sunshine signing off for today!

Right or wrong? I’d rather not say

So here I am, procrastinating again while I should be completing yet another lengthy person specification for a job application. Do I fit the minutely-detailed criteria attached to the job? I’ll exercise my new-found British right and say: “I’d rather not say.”

Right, I know that we are spoilt for choice here in London. What to do, where to go, how to get there, what to wear, and whether or not to take a brolly. Ok the last one doesn’t really have another option. But I’ve discovered – to my frustration – that job applications are just as full of choices. I found it quite funny at first, but now I just find it annoying.

Each job application requires an “Equal Opportunities Monitoring” form, which – we are promised – is not considered in conjunction with job applications. It is purely for monitoring purposes. So, in order that no-one is discriminated against on account of his or her sex, marital or family status, age, ethnic origin, disability, race, colour, nationality, national origin, creed, sexual orientation, political affiliation, or trade union membership, a record is kept of all of these criteria, for monitoring purposes. I haven’t yet been asked which football team I support, but I’m sure that’s coming next.

What amuses me about all of this – apart from finding it quite strange – is that you have the option in all of these to say, “I would rather not say.” If I answered that to every question – and it would be my right to do so – where would that leave the monitoring process? Imagine the level of speculation! And why do I have to complete it when I’m applying for the job – do all organisations monitor who applies for what, and then try to target different audiences as required for the next jobs they advertise? And if it’s not considered alongside my application, then what’s to stop me from being less than honest?

So it’s back to the drawing board. Am I having fun? No. Am I optimistic? Yes. Will I keep at it? Yes. Will I let it get me down? No. Is this something I’ll remember with fondness about my time in London? I’d rather not say.

Sunshine signing off!

There’s fitness in my fantasy

Another job-hunting survival tactic that helps to keep me sane is going to the gym. I try to keep, well, fit – although in London if I said I keep well fit, you’d think I was showing off.

I do a few classes a week at our local gym, and while it keeps me fit and not too flabby, it also provides a truckload of material to write about!

At my Pilates class the other evening, we had to do a move where, from a seated position, we had to lift both legs at about 45 degrees from the ground and from each other, and then hold on to our ankles. If you think it’s a mission explaining it, try doing it! I could see the reflection in the mirror of a middle-aged lady in the front of the class, and she was grimacing and mouthing “ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!” That was very funny!

People are often also quite liberal with their personal gas in this class; a move like I’ve just described could be deadly.

Body conditioning is another fun class I do. A few weeks ago, the young woman in front of me seemed to be struggling with several of the exercises. She spoke to the instructor a few times, and after a while, the instructor said to her, “I think it’s probably best you go home, now.” I thought she might have been ill, or recovering from an operation. As she left the studio, the instructor said, “That’ll teach her to eat a jacket potato before coming to the gym!”

And I think my all-time favourite is my Friday evening class – the most invigorating, fun hour of Latin aerobics. The Argentinian instructor is unbelievably – or, as she would say, SO endearingly, unveliebavly – enthusiastic!  What a fabulous dancer, an excellent instructor, and she gets our whole class – who, for some reason, are all females – totally caught up in the Latin rhythms and sassy dance moves! I keep my eyes glued on her for the entire hour, and end up thinking that I am dancing like she does … the little bit of fantasy helps, as well as, of course, blood, sweat and tears!

I made the mistake of coming home and demonstrating to my husband what we do in the class – I suddenly realized it wasn’t such a good idea (you had to be there, really) and slumped, in a scarlet-red blush, into the nearest chair while my husband laughed till the tears rolled down his face. Yes, it definitely helps to keep my eyes on the instructor! Fantasy is good.

I’m job hunting, not looking for new friends

Yesterday I made a new friend. I met her on the bus. She told me her life story, and how afraid she is of dogs. Then she got off the bus. We travelled two stops together.

I don’t know what it is about me, but I do seem to attract “interesting” people. Who tell me their life stories. Long life stories, often involving a fear. Like the time years ago when I answered my telephone at home, and it was a wrong number. Ten minutes later, and another life story later – including the caller seriously telling me he didn’t like to answer wrong number calls, as he was afraid of contracting AIDS – the caller decided to try for the right number!

So, if only I could attract job offers with the same success as new friends!  Progress since I last wrote my blog, is that I have had two more job interviews and had two more “unfortunately unsuccessful” outcomes. If I had a pound for every time I’ve been told I’ve been unsuccessful, I wouldn’t need to be looking for a job now. And I could pay for my husband’s studies!

A few weeks ago, to take my mind off job-hunting, and to be able to see in front of me, I decided to go and have my hair done. I have found an exceedingly hip hairdresser in Soho – I can’t help feeling special as I walk through trendy Soho, stepping into a salon that is owned by a drop-dead gorgeous Australian, and having my hair done by a contagiously chirpy Spaniard. What a wonderful, uplifting experience – uplifted most of my current account too, but who’s counting? Sure beats job-hunting!

After my berry talented hair artist had transformed my do, I discovered that the online banking facility was offline, so I had to walk to the nearest pay point to draw cash (gasp – shock – horror! What? Pay with CASH?) That was another surreal experience for me – walking down Broadwick Road, past the most amazingly interesting shops – including a pop-up shop that offered “free ping-pong” – towards Carnaby Street. It’s such an iconic area of London, including places that I’ve read about so often in the past, conjuring up images of the Beatles, psychedelia, uber-fashion. And actually to be there … it was mind-blowing, really.

But back to reality … I continue the job hunt, keep at the keyboard, review job possibilities till they’re coming out of my ears, and move forward. I’ll be glad when I don’t have to study another person specification and match my suitability against all 35 criteria. And when I get that “congratulations, you were successful!” outcome; I only need one of those.

So, if you see me on the bus, or the tube, or the train, and you want to introduce yourself and tell me your life story, please offer me a job first.

Commuting can be fun

If all the world’s a stage, then London public transport is scriptwriter’s paradise. And absolute bliss for a new blogger like me.

From overhearing an animated conversation among a group of priests – yes, as you guessed, they were talking at length and with passion about Alice in Wonderland in 3D – to watching a group of overweight, under-talented and slightly less than sober commuters pole dance on the Jubilee line, I’ve observed enough dramas, soap operas, musicals and scary movies on the tubes, trains and buses, to fill a library. And I’m still watching.

A while back I was sat on the tube, waiting to go home at the end of a busy work day (yes, I did have a job then!), when the crowded carriage of Friday commuters was interrupted by the arrival of a young, fresh-faced woman, who ran on the tube in a fashion reminiscent of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

She literally ran into the tube, her face filled with awe and wonder and amazement; she ran this way, she ran that way, she looked up, she looked down, and then, when all foreign eyes were upon her (local commuters generally don’t look up), she slinked over to the end of the carriage and stood at the window, facing the next compartment.

She opened the window, put her iPod earphones in place, and began to sing at full volume. I thought she was serenading a friend in the next door carriage, but it seemed she was singing for whoever would listen. Occasionally she sounded like someone singing through headphones, at other times like someone auditioning for a reality TV show, but mostly she was singing for the amusement of the commuters in both carriages.

The tube stopped at the next station, and who should walk into our carriage but a busker! Complete with guitar, and skirt made from a Union Jack … which wouldn’t be so bad if the busker were female. However, he introduced himself and said he wanted to entertain the evening commuters, asking for 10p per song, and promising he wouldn’t use the money for drink or drugs, “although…” he added, “it is Friday, so who knows?”

As he began to sing “Satisfaction”, a song he told us he wrote with Mick Jagger, the giggles of my fellow commuters could no longer be stifled. One person asked where the cameras were, and if the guitarist and “Julie Andrews” were taking the mick. Our in-carriage drama queen said, “Oh, no. He’s a professional singer. I’m just annoying.” No kidding.

The busker sang a few songs, walked down the carriage and, while he attracted very little funding to feed his habit, he did attract much mobile phone video attention. He walked down the carriage, singing enthusiastically and occasionally in tune. Miss Sound of Music watched in melodramatic anticipation of his next song, as he jumped off the tube at the next stop.

As the tube moved on, Miss Musical discovered, to her hair-grabbing horror, that she was travelling in the “wrong direction”. Thinking and agonizing out loud, she walked this way and that as she decided what to do about this increasingly tragic situation. After many dramatic utterances of “oh my God!” she alighted at the next tube station, amid flutters of giggles and chatter on the tube, and cynical echoes of her words. It was the first time I saw unity among commuters, albeit at the expense of a would-be dramatic actress and a drug-fuelled singer/songwriter.

And then there was the time I was waiting for my tube at my local station, when I noticed a fairly mousy, innocuous middle-aged woman a little way down the platform from me. When the crammed tube arrived, the doors opened in front of her, and there was not one centimetre to spare; there was no way she could possibly consider climbing into that tube. Not even a hardened London commuter would have braved it.

But she was different. She launched herself headfirst on to the tube, only – after some jostling by the heaving mass of in-train commuters – to be spat out on to the platform like a mango pip. Undeterred, she gathered herself on the platform, turned around and forced her way backwards into the tube. She leant back at an acute angle to ensure the doors wouldn’t close on her, and off she went, leaving commuters on the platform open-mouthed, amazed and perplexed at her dogged and surprising determination.

Another time, I noticed on my crowded tube that one of the commuters was travelling on a different tube. His was much bouncier than the one the rest of us were travelling on, and every so often his went over a particularly bumpy patch. No-one around him noticed, especially not the city suit next to him, who was moving and swaying to the rhythm of his personal entertainment centre, nor the chap nearby launching battle in a deadly game of snooker on his mobile phone.

It’s all there, folks – and I’ll keep telling you about it!

So I decided against stand-up comedy …

My sister said that if I couldn’t find a job in London, I should launch my career as a stand-up comedian. I love my sister.

So, this is my compromise. I’m still looking for work; I’m much more confident brandishing a laptop than a mic; I prefer sitting to standing – it doesn’t make my back hurt, and – to be honest – I’m not really that funny!

But living in this heaving mass of humanity they call London, is SUCH fun and gives me plenty to write about. I can add “job hunter” to my CV, we’ve seen concerts aplenty, and – as something of an avid people-watcher, and one who has a keen sense of the absurd – I have mountains of London material to keep this blog going for some time. Thank you for coming along for the ride, please let me know what you think, and I’m sure we’ll have fun. Here goes…

I’ve been living in London for almost a year. I moved here, with my husband, so he can do his doctorate at a London university. We moved here from South Africa (yes, way south of the river!)

So, apart from being temporarily unemployed, I’m like Sting: an alien. One who gets ribbed for saying now, just now and now now, when none of them means soon. One who gets teased for saying plizha. I was taught that politeness is up there with cleanliness, and you know what cleanliness is next to. So if someone says thank you, I say plizha.

I’ve learnt that being asked if you’d like a drink usually means tea or coffee. Pants are worn under trousers. Tea can mean just about anything. And it can cost 30p to spend a penny.

Despite what everyone says, I’ve learnt that Londoners – generally not estate agents or recruitment consultants – can be really helpful. The day we arrived in London last autumn, I had two strangers offer to carry my suitcase up stairs and down stairs, into and out of tube stations. And not away from me, either. I’ve seen a young woman escort a frail, elderly gentleman across a busy street, as he was scared and in arthritic pain. And I’ve been on a bus when the busload of commuters have waited – and yelled at the bus driver to wait – while a carer tried to coax her young, nervous charge to get off the bus at their home stop.

At the moment, I am sat here in my lovely London flat, staring into space, procrastinating up a storm, and spending yet another day searching for jobs and submitting job applications into the ether. Having worked for only five months of the eleven we’ve been here, my optimism to find a job that will support us does not dim. My glass is half full, but London is teaching me the value of a thick skin.

Armed with my laptop, I again stalk the internet for a job. Each job in my field looks like a real possibility; I complete each application with care and detail, and press “send”. Off it goes into the unknown, usually heralded by an auto-reply that acknowledges receipt of my application, and removes any obligation from the recruiter to respond further.

I know that I will hear further if I’ve used the right words, and passed the first test that is “writing the application”. My ability, skills and experience mean very little in this hunt; playing the game and completing the forms in the right way are the weapons of choice. And if you get as far as the interview, and answer the questions according to the “interview formula”, you’ve bagged your prey.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not cynical. I’m just learning. And I’ve decided that when I get another job, I will have a better understanding of what it is that the London job market is looking for. And then I’ll bottle it and sell it and make my millions!