Social Welfare? Social Unfair, I say.

I’m blogging a little later than usual today, mostly because I spent half my day in the

Joy Factory…

Otherwise known as the dole office.

Such an awfully depressing place to be of a Monday afternoon, let me tell you. Despite sitting there for the best part of two hours before being seen to, I must admit that the people behind those bulletproof glass windows (presumably because most unemployed people carry weapons) are actually really efficient, friendly and willing to help you out. A rare thing, I think, especially in the public service.

The unemployment office was packed to the rafters with the most unbelievably diverse group of people I think I’ve ever seen. There was me. Beside me were two women in their forties who felt that the Social Welfare office was THE PLACE to express their undying love for each other. There was kissing. There was love handle groping. There was an uncomfortable silence rippling throughout the building.

In front of me, a homeless man who was obviously off his chops on something was determined to skip the queue of fifty people and speak to a clerk about his need for “a bitta money”. He had no forms. He had no ID. He had obviously had a lobotomy or something before arriving to the place. And to please the crowd even further he had clearly not showered since 1979.

There was a young girl playing with her child, who was also a young girl. At first, I felt sorry for her. I looked on as a 17 or 18 year old queued for unemployment benefit with her toddler begging to use a toilet that didn’t exist. I was almost about to offer to hold her place in the ticketed queue when I noticed something. She had a very expensive, new season Topshop handbag (I remember wanting to buy it and realising I had 10 cent to my name) slung over the side of the buggy. She was tap-tap-tapping on a customised iPhone. She had freshly applied acrylic nails. My sympathy for her didn’t last past the tap-tap-tapping.

There was a dangerously obese twenty-something man with hair longer than mine grunting about waiting for so long. He kept looking around himself as though waiting for someone to say “Sorry, we’ll bump you up to the top of the queue so you can get to your next meal that bit faster.” I noted that he was holding ticket number 256 and mine was 252. Inside, I was delighted I’d have to ask him to move aside as I walked to be dealt with.

There was a couple there with their baby. The guy was black, the girl was white and the baby was a healthy little mix of the two. He was a cutie. Until he opened his mouth. He (Alex, I deduced, from the customised Man U jersey the little tyke was sporting) began by screaming anytime his mother stopped pushing his pram back and forth. He continued with a chorus of intense sobbing when his toy car dropped from his pram’s tabletop. Reverting to the original meaning of “throwing ones toys out of the pram”.

I could tell that the middle aged woman sitting to my far left considered it beneath her to be queuing at all, let alone in the social welfare office. She was dressed very expensively – the type of woman I imagine would do her shopping in Marks and Sparks, referring to it as such at every given opportunity. Morks and Sporks, dahhhhling. I’d say she’d have been mortified had anyone she knew walked in.

I sat there patiently waiting for the little screen to buzz and show ticket number 252 to window number 5. As I was called, I felt as though I had just gotten the call to tell me I was nominated for the Nobel Prize. Such was my relief at getting to leave the building, I jubilantly called out “Go raibh maith agat!” to the guy who opened the locked door for me to leave.

I was overjoyed that the Social Service had accepted my forms and were planning to allow me the €153 a week that I’ll get from now until the day I secure employment. I am truly relishing the thoughts of returning to that smelly, jammed place once a month to sign on. And best of all, with that hefty pay package, I’ll be able to afford that yacht I’ve always wanted…..

Tags: dole, government, money, queueing, signing on, social service, social welfare, unemployment