Everyone who has a job in England needs a National Insurance Number. This is so taxes can be deducted and benefits can be determined, it is also linked to national pensions. No-one can get one before getting a job. Malia had been working for a week and it was time!
She had to go to the Job Centre for an interview, not the local one, but the one at City Side, Whitechapel, where the ripper killed his victims. It turned into a day trip that was sadly lacking a picnic, but we did have plenty of rain and slippery streets. She was told to take her passport, and since it’s British and she’s British she is “entitled” to work, their word not mine. She also had to take along proof of residence and another form of ID and was told her Texas Driving License was “brilliant,” another good English expression.
We set off and arrived an hour later in the East End which hasn’t changed much. Grimy streets made worse by the rain, sleazy shops and lots of business going on in the garment, hat and bag wholesalers lining Commercial Road.
At the Job Centre we had to stand and wait for Malia’s name to be called. Then we were herded off in groups to our respective interviewers. On the way Malia said,
“What if I can’t answer the questions?”
“They’ll be all about you so you should be able to. You’ll get an easy A.”
“I don’t know about that.” she said, and she was right!
The man we were assigned to was a disgruntled African with an accent I could hardly understand. We sat down and he said,
“Where’s Malia?” Malia raised her hand. Then she handed over her passport and was asked if she also had her American passport?
“We weren’t told to bring her American Passport,” I said.
“If you have two passports you bring them both. Can you get it?” Malia looked at me.
“No, it’s at home,” I replied.
Malia got out her other two pieces of identfication and was told that the proof of address had to be a bill, a rent book or a bank statement, he tossed her railpass envelope aside,
“She’s my dependent and lives at home so doesn’t have any of that,” I said.
“You need to write a letter saying she lives with you and attach it to one of your bills. Can you do that?”
“Now?” I asked.
“Now.” he nodded.
“No,” I said, “no-one told me I had to do that.” Handsome Hubs is sitting off in the waiting area, having hissy fit after hissy fit while watching us!
“He’s going to have a heart attack!” I whispered to Malia!
The interviewer looked at Malia’s driving license and tossed it back at us with disdain.
“Who told you to bring that?”
“The polite gentleman on the phone,” I wanted to say, “he said it would be ‘brilliant!” But I held my peace.
We sat and watched him fill out forms. He had her sign one, then asked
“If you were born in America how did you get a British Passport?”
“My mother’s English,” Malia answered.
“And your American passport is at home?”
“Yes,” said Malia. Yay! She actually answered two questions correctly!!
He stamped a photocopy of her passport page and had her sign and date it,
“Here and here,” he indicated. Malia started signing in the wrong place…
She giggled! He took the paper and looked at it and drew lines through it, stamped the page again and placed “x’s” where she was to sign. This time she signed in the correct space and didn’t giggle.
Incidentally the date was easy today, 7/7/11, no having to remember to put the day first followed by the month, they were both the same!! Easy one Malia!
Then he verified her address which was on his computer screen, so he already had that information when he typed in her passport number! Hers is an electronic one too so everything is on a chip.
Then another piece of paper slid to our side of the desk,
“Since you don’t have verification of employment write the name of where you work and as much information as you can, here.” He pointed half way down a piece of paper that already had notes on it about other victims I suspect. Malia complied and offered to give her boss’s contact information.
“No,” said happy peon.
I think we both failed in his eyes this afternoon. He should be the one on the information phone line telling people what to bring to their National Insurance interview. Evidently Mr. Brilliant was just too lenient.
We were dismissed with instructions to sit in another waiting area for Malia’s passport to be returned. We had two forms telling us that her request was going to be sent to Glasgow to be examined and a decision made about her NI Number application. If she didn’t hear after four weeks we had the number to call.
And Texas Cowboy Hubby of mine, when we were back out in the rain and away from that grim little office, said,
“No worries, we won’t have to do that again!”
“Only when you get your job!” I reminded him.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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