The Jobcentre

I recently walked past the old Jobcentre I used to sign on at. “Signing on.” Being on benefits. On the dole. I’d go in every two weeks, be quizzed about my job search activities, then get £70 or so a week in Jobseeker’s Allowance (paid fortnightly).

A thoroughly soul crushing experience. Not that there was much soul left to crush at the time.

I’d been on the dole on and off throughout my twenties. Interspersed with some retail jobs which I always seemed to be walking away from. Those dizzy heights of £5.50 an hour.

There’s shame and stigma attached to signing on — being on the dole. For me it was normal. Neither of my parents had worked. I lived with my mother in a council house in Barking & Dagenham, one of the most deprived London boroughs (across England too). That was readily apparent.

I wasn’t typical of the area. I’d skipped much of school (not sat my GCSEs either) and instead directed my own learning. I was curious, driven and highly intelligent. I knew it. I was also socially awkward, rebellious (I didn’t fit in) and was severely lacking in confidence. Barely any self-esteem.

I’d been going into the city, Central London, since I was 16 (not counting my adventures aged 7). That’s where those retail jobs and my social life had been, an hour from where I lived.

I knew about art, literature, history, food and many other things. I was well spoken. I read, researched, asked questions and learned. Mostly by doing. I flitted in and out of different groups of people.

I’d saved some money and travelled around Europe at 22. But I always ended up back in Dagenham. Cut off from the city.

The Jobcentre didn’t know what to make of me. Nothing about me added up. They didn’t like that. Race and class were also factors. A brown kid in a sea of unemployed brown and black kids. Despite how I presented they thought I was workshy. A multigenerational scrounger.

My longest period on the dole was after I’d dropped out of university in 2009. I’d used up the last of my student loan to go travelling around the US. I was 29. I came back from New York broke and broken. I’d fallen in with bad company and had been taken advantage of when trying to do some freelance work. I didn’t get paid. All I got were death threats after I left.

I’d gone from one failure to another. I came back and sank into a pit of despair.

Failure and despair. Over £20,000 in student loan debt and nothing to show for it. I couldn’t face trying to get the remaining credit to complete my degree. I didn’t trust myself to see anything through. I couldn’t think about getting a job. I didn’t trust myself to show up (also my ideas of a “real job” were skewed). I’d just screw it up so what was the point of trying? There was no place for me.

I shut down. Closed myself off from everyone. Became a hermit. Slept upwards of 16 hours a day. Barely ate. I was done. My thoughts were filled with ending my life. Defeat. Hopelessness. The death of hope.

I was also back at the Jobcentre signing on again. Zombielike. After a while I was able to switch to Employment and Support Allowance on mental health grounds. A rare bit of insight from someone at the Jobcentre. “You’re depressed.” True, I could barely speak.

I no longer needed to go in every two weeks to justify my existence. A year or so of grace.

I sat in my pit of despair for a few months numbed and not doing anything, in a sort of fugue state. Then I picked up World of Warcraft. I’d used it as an escape the year before after burning out from my university final year project. It filled a void. A pseudo life. I’d stay up until the early hours of the morning playing. Adventuring and chatting with people behind the safe anonymity of my wizard character. Didn’t matter who I was in the real world. The real world wasn’t for me.

I joined a guild and made myself useful, helping to organise, coordinate, handle logistics, advising on optimal configuration for gear etc. Building relationships, connecting people, mediating disputes. It became a way of life. I also got good at the in-game economy. I wondered if any of those skills could translate to the real world. I seemed to be capable and was held in high regard. Nope. Safer to stay in electronic fantasy..

For a while. After a year or so I grew bored and stopped playing. I’d max out some achievements and it had started to feel like a treadmill. I’d made good friends, there were some emotional goodbyes. I needed a change.

I was feeling less depressed. Going out occasionally. Lifting weights. I’d turned 30.

Over a year had passed and I’d been put back on Jobseeker’s Allowance. Back to the Jobcentre. Applying for jobs. Getting no interviews. I wasn’t really trying. The prospect of an interview terrified me. What would I say? And I didn’t want to work in retail again. £70 a week was enough. A limited life but I was free.

I got into baking. Obsessively, as is my way. Cakes, pastries, bread. Experimenting and getting techniques down. Chiffon cakes. Making a Sachertorte. Tempering chocolate. Growing my own sourdough culture, learning how to get the perfect crust, replicating the effect of a steam injection oven. Months of daily baking, giving away what I couldn’t consume. The woman who ran the local post office was a happy recipient and remarked I should consider doing this for a living.

For company I started making friends with the neighbourhood cats. One sunny afternoon reading in the garden I was approached by a little black and white chap. Invited him in. Before long tabbies and gingers had taken up residence on the sofa and other spots in the house, much to the bemusement of my mother. She grew to like them. I’d bake. The cats would watch.

I knew I needed help. I wasn’t okay. I’d never been okay. So I got a referral to see a therapist. It took 18 months before sessions started. Long waitlist. I wasn’t going anywhere. Time had no meaning.

I’d still think about ending my life in an offhand sort of way. If I ran out of things to occupy my time. Luckily there were many books to read, baking techniques to perfect and a guitar to not be crap at. I was in a bubble. I didn’t engage with the outside world and was still avoiding friends. They lived in a different world. A world I was hiding from out of shame.

But I was healing, not that I knew it at the time. My limited existence was all I thought I would ever have and I knew where the exit was if I grew weary. There was a spark of discontent. Of rage. I knew I was intelligent and capable but didn’t have the courage to face the world. I didn’t have support and I didn’t know how to ask for help. I didn’t know who I would ask even if I could.

I sometimes played with the idea of getting a job in tech. Even without a degree, maybe I could get something based on my work. My projects from university, the unpaid work I’d done in the US — a digital seating chart being used by an events venue in NYC, an unfinished video streaming platform for Torahnic lectures. My own personal projects too, a little Sudoku game… but I didn’t think any of that was good enough. Not “professional.” Whatever that meant. I was just afraid of rejection and failure. Even if I was successful I didn’t trust myself to stick to a Monday — Friday 9–5 job. I wanted autonomy and flexibility in how I worked and I didn’t think that existed. Especially not for someone like me. My only experience of work had been bosses ordering me.

I was safe in my bubble.

Numbed to the fortnightly humiliation of the Jobcentre, I sleepwalked in and out. Some of the staff regarded me as a long term scrounger by this point. A lost cause. Whatever. Yes, that was me. I internalised it. Yet in reality I was very active and had full days. Learning, doing, creating. In a constant state of flow. But none of that counted, society, via the Jobcentre, had determined that I only had value if I was in full time paid employment.

2012 rolled around. I went on a trip to Gujarat, India with my mother. She was from there. I’d never been. It was interesting. Met people, saw how they lived, explored a little on my own. All very fascinating but I felt no connection to the place, people or culture.

It was a short trip. No epiphanies or revelations when I returned but I did feel refreshed. Lighter. Energised. I started reconnecting with a few friends. Just phone calls.

One friend who I’d worked with in a camera shop years before said something that grabbed my attention. He was working for a large multinational camera/optics/electronics company. He ran a sort of “pit stop”for photographers at big events. Photographers could loan cameras and lenses or drop theirs off for servicing. My friend was frustrated, venting about how the off-the-shelf software provided by his company didn’t do what he needed and how he’d had to resort to paper forms for inventory and tracking loans and repairs.

Neurons fired and I cut in “I can help.” I wanted to do something. I needed to do something. I was a problem solver and this was a problem I wanted to solve.

He humoured me. I’m pretty sure he didn’t think I could do anything to help but he had nothing to lose.

I was just glad to have something to do. A project! So I got an initial sense of what was needed and started prototyping. A few weeks in I’d cooked up something and demoed it to him. He was impressed and encouraged me to keep going.

After a few months I’d developed something usable. Friend invited me to Wimbledon for a few days, the next big event he was overseeing. Met his staff and set up what I’d built. Showed them how to use it. Barcode scanner to check out items. PDF receipts. Got positive feedback and valuable input for changes and improvements.

My friend thought I was onto something. He wanted his company to adopt what I’d built after a few more rounds of testing and improvement. He spoke to his superiors at their European headquarters. I was surprised it had got to this point, I’d just wanted to be useful. I was also surprised I hadn’t quit and stuck at this for several months.

I didn’t realise at the time that I was acting as a one-man multidisciplinary team. Conducting user research, doing service design, prototyping, continuously improving. Building incrementally, bit by bit, making changes on the fly from what I learned in the real world. Experimenting, throwing away what didn’t work and keeping what did. Improving and refining. A few years later I would encounter codified terms for these practices. At that time it all just seemed like common sense to me. My own methodology and way of working.

Couple of months after Wimbledon I was at London Fashion Week. More feedback, more changes and improvements.

Around this time therapy sessions had started, finally. A session every week for a year. I spoke about my childhood, parents and my various mental states. Everything really. I was able to gain a perspective I’d never had before. It was a start.

The Jobcentre became difficult. Wimbledon had clashed with my signing on day. So I’d explained what I was doing. Their reaction:

“So you’re not looking for work and aren’t available for interviews on those days?”

I explained more fully. They asked if what I was doing was paid work. I said no, but it could turn into paid work. They asked if it was volunteering. No. They didn’t understand. So they decided to “sanction” me by cutting off Jobseeker’s Allowance for four weeks. I had to borrow travel and lunch money for Wimbledon from my mother. I wasn’t used to asking anyone for money.

The staff at the Jobcentre treated everything I said with suspicion. Someone like me had created something that was going to be used at a big event like Wimbledon? Clearly some people will say anything to avoid looking for work.

I was nursing a tiny spark of confidence and pride. They were trying to stamp it out. Were they bad people? No. But they did not understand and they were not there to understand. Not equipped to understand. In a sense they’re also victims of a rigid and inflexible system.

I pushed on regardless. I had momentum. I was enjoying what I was building. The therapy was helping too.

By the end of 2012 my product was as good as it was going to get. A meeting had been arranged at the company’s European headquarters just outside London. I’d prepared a presentation deck and demo. I had no idea what I was doing. How do I sell this? I had no experience of business. Wasn’t a sole trader. Didn’t have a company. I also wondered how they’d maintain, change or improve what I’d built. It was bespoke.

As it turned out they didn’t know either. They were impressed by the product but not interested in buying from a one-man-band. The people I spoke to were procurement and contract manager types, they didn’t deal with bespoke software solutions. In later years I’d gain more experience and insight on all that. This was not that time.

They didn’t say “no” outright. They said they’d get back to me. I waited around six months. They never did. I hadn’t had any expectations.

Despite that I took away a sense of accomplishment. All that mattered was that I’d created something. It was received positively. It was being used. It would continue to do good. I told my friend to keep using the product and he did. He wanted to. The post events analytics functionality had become vital to him.

More importantly, I’d seen something through. I’d delivered. It had been about a year’s worth of work.

I was 32, it was mid 2013. Therapy had been going for almost a year. I decided to take a little trip to Copenhagen to get to know some Danish cousins I’d connected with online. One especially has since become one of the best friends I could ever hope to have.

Sitting on a bus in Copenhagen one night, out of nowhere, I thought to myself:

“Fuck it. I CAN get a job. Have my own place. Live.”

Ending my life could wait. The fear of rejection had receded.

I wrote a CV. In earnest. I referenced the work I’d done in the US and my software that had been used at Wimbledon and Fashion Week. Paid or unpaid, professional or amateur. None of that mattered. It was do or die.

Uploaded it on a Sunday evening to some job sites. Aggregators picked it up. I also put out some code samples from my work. No expectations.

Monday morning my inbox was flooded and my phone was ringing non-stop. Recruiters.

What the hell was going on?

Turns out my pet interest in open source technologies had exploded into huge demand behind my back. I was out of touch with all of that. Completely unaware.

I guess being a lifelong generalist and “doer” can pay off. Preparedness meeting opportunity something something…

One recruiter I spoke to asked what my salary expectations were. I said “maybe around £18,000?” Long silence. They thought I was joking. Or brain damaged.

Then suddenly a flurry of interviews. Then a flurry of offers. I was reeling.

Two weeks later I’d accepted a role at a content marketing agency in Soho. £30,000 a year. Seemed astronomical. I hadn’t even negotiated.

Three months later I was renting a dingy room in South London. It was a start. I was out. Back in the world. I had means. I was independent. I could go to the pub again. See friends. Make new friends.

Live.

That job quickly swept away all notions I’d had about what “professional” meant. It was a silly place but a good entry point. I left after a year. I met some contractors while there. They told me I was better than them. One of them kept buying me lunch and drinks out of some combination of kindness and pity. Apparently I’d grossly undervalued myself.

I resigned but had hedged my bets with a number of offers for permanent roles elsewhere. I became a contractor and tripled my income. I wasn’t motivated by money but I also didn’t want to have to think about money. I wanted security and options. Further multipliers would occur.

I again fell into the trap of what “professional” meant and had some notions of how good I needed to be as a contractor. Those were as skewed as my earlier notions had been. I remained a lifelong overachiever, just with greater self-awareness.

At some point in all this I finally started to understand my worth. As a colleague would remark a few years later, this was the beginning of a “meteoric rise.”

Around 2017 I stepped away from tech and stuck my head into deeper issues. How to organise better, give more autonomy and control to those closest to the problem, do things more sustainably. How to create a real lasting impact. That drew me into consulting with leadership types. I had ideas and I was outspoken about them. I waded into boardroom politics. Somehow ended up on a crusade. My whole life had been one anyway.

Seven years after leaving that first job I took a 60% pay drop (for some idealistic reasons) and ran GOV.UK during the pandemic as Head of Technology. But really I went in there to agitate for change. 18 months later I realised I’d reached an impasse, I.e. I didn’t want to play people politics. So I resigned, dropping to zero pay. A smaller drop than the one I’d taken to go permanent. The economics of pay and reward are weird.

I was also burnt out. Too much too quickly and the pandemic hadn’t helped. I’m a real life people person.

Financially comfortable. Financially independent. My problems were now further up Maslow’s pyramid.

Late 2022 I hit the road and travelled much of the world. Had adventures, made friends and helped in some ways here and there. Mostly I just lived.

And now? I don’t know. Haven’t decided yet.

So back to 2013 when I got that first job. I went into the Jobcentre to tell them I would no longer be signing on. They congratulated me then asked about the job. I told them. They were baffled. They weren’t used to someone with no qualifications going from long term unemployment to a well paid job in the city.

“You just got lucky.”

Sure.

I walked past that old Jobcentre the other day. First time in over a decade. I reflected. I wrote this post. I wondered:

How many others are in a poverty trap? Intelligent, capable, full of potential. Not aware of what they have to offer. Lacking support and guidance. Dealing with mental health issues. Struggling to exist. Without hope.

Too fucking many.

And in my “career” (don’t like the word) how many barely competent or lazy people did I encounter in comfortable positions, “phoning it in”, hoarding opportunity or just being in the way? Taking their position and status for granted. Entitled. Acting as gatekeepers..

Too fucking many.

There’s a ceiling many can’t break above. There’s a floor many aren’t allowed to fall below. Somewhere in between is a fairer society.

Social mobility doesn’t just happen. Many don’t get the chance. Systems, structures and incentives are stacked against them.

I’m glad I made it. I’m glad I’m not dead.

Mental health is everything.

PS: Yes, I did leave the country a few times while I was on Jobseeker’s Allowance. I don’t think that was allowed. If DWP wants to retroactively sanction me they know where to find me.

PPS. My student loan has been paid off in full. A few years ago. Something I never imagined possible.

PPPS. To my old Jobcentre: it’s not your fault. But you could be nicer.