The newbies walk in briskly, but they soon learn the dole-queue shuffle

SIGNING ON:In a new series starting today, a long-term unemployed man writes about life on the dole

THE ‘NEWBIES’ are easily identified: Suits, polished shoes, sometimes carrying a souvenir of office life – a leather briefcase, a ringbound folder. They pay for metered parking whereas the regulars – at least those who no longer own flash motors – park for free in the nearby flats. The newbies advertise, with brisk walk and no-nonsense manner, that they are not used to taking tickets, taking orders, waiting. That this is temporary.

They’re wrong.

Whereas long-termers no longer bother making any social arrangements while still in the queue – you never know how long you’ll be in this kip – the newbies make and take calls, nonchalantly explaining to partners, lovers and friends they won’t be too long.

They’re wrong.

Easily 150 people waiting. Only two hatches in operation. It takes just one excessively disgruntled member of the public to throw the system into utter disarray, just one person demanding to see a supervisor. The newbies survey the scene. They note a long-termer filling in the crossword, oblivious. They make a mental note to bring a newspaper next time. They ease forward, unwittingly falling into the slow shuffle, the dance of the dispossessed.

One new arrival notices dandruff sprinkled liberally on the collar of the man in front. The smell of last night’s alcohol coming off another. Last time he found himself in such a miserable queue was post-communist Montenegro, where he’d bought a little apartment, and had to wait hours have the paperwork stamped in the presence of a judge. This is disturbingly similar. The paint peeling. The resignation emanating from both side of the glass.

I don’t belong here, he tells himself. Then wonders how many other men tell themselves the same thing, month in, month out. He shuffles forward. Begins to get nervous about parking. Is forced into conversation with a woman in front:“Would you mind keeping my place for me, please. I have to put some more money in the meter?”

The woman smiles, and nods. The newbie checks behind, to see if anyone objects. Then steps outside, cold air a tonic.

He re-enters. A Filipino woman at a hatch is listening to a civil servant explaining, tersely, that the name entered on her original claim does not match that on her file, or, for that matter, on her passport. She explains, politely, that she recently married, that when she was originally assessed she was merely engaged. That the civil servant who’d interviewed her confused her maiden and marriage names. It is that simple. No, says the civil servant, it is not. The Filipina is remarkably dignified. The newbie makes another mental note: In all future dealings with public servants I will endeavour to be as unruffled as she.

He is wrong.

A track-suited twenty-something enters, shouts someone’s name, coarsely. He has a prison-landing swagger. The person whose name he has called out answers, equally roughly, Track-Suit steps directly into the queue. Three places in front of the newbie. The latter feels his blood rising. He presumes that, after Track-Suit has greeted his friend, he’ll either fall in at the back, or at least request consent from those behind.

Wrong again.

Shuffle forward, hope the person in front has no complaint, no query. Hope the person just signs the bloody form, and doesn’t start asking about holidays, or part-time work, or the need to attend a funeral. Hope the person is not a professional moaner. Ring Joe Duffy, he thinks. And hurry up.

At the top now. The woman in front explains to the man behind the hatch that there has been a mix-up in payment. No, she didn’t sign last month because she had begun a part-time course. She’d dropped in a letter to this effect.

The civil servant extracts himself slowly from his chair. Then disappears for what seems like an eternity. When he returns, you can smell cigarette smoke, even from here. He informs the woman no such letter has been received. He has checked the drop-box, and her file. The woman, who seems very accustomed to this type of response, produces a photocopy of the original, points to the date. Then asks to see a supervisor.

The newbie tells himself he had better get used to waiting.

He is right.

The writer of this piece wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the Editor