Optimism

It could be a lot worse, of course.

With the job at the ministry having expired after just over one month (thankfully longer than the projected two weeks), I find myself unable to get any further employment despite having signed myself up with at least five other employment agencies.
As the days tick past without any further money coming in, the grand plan in which I vowed only to spend what had I earned during my time in New Zealand slowly deflates and I am forced once more to crack open by Barclays debit card and dig out some more cash from one of those machines which will probably scoop off a sizable percentage from my account while it is at it.

But as I said, it could be worse.

The employment agencies here are a peculiar bunch. Odette, the super-agent who managed to secure me my first employment within twenty-four hours of my first phone call to her, is on holiday and with her, seem to have gone all of the employment opportunities in the city. She leaves me in the capable hands of someone called 'Honan', whose name I ask her to spell in case I overheard her wrong.
"He seems okay." Gary says.
"Have you met him?" I'm a little surprised.
"Odette brought him round the office this afternoon," Gary says, "Introduced him to everyone."
I blink. Odette never came to visit me in the office. I tell Gary this, with a slightly accusatory tone.
"She comes round every now and then." Gary concedes. "With cakes."
"Cakes!" I squeal, "I never got any cakes!"

I sign on with a couple more agencies, but most of them seem to need to be told what "data entry" work actually is, and appear to believe that I wish to do this work as a career rather than on a short term basis.
"Do you have your CV?" asks a rather prim looking receptionist at one of the agencies, situated in a glittering glass office block on the exclusive Viaduct Harbour complex.
I pass over a pristine copy which she takes between finger and thumb and glances at it over the top of her spectacles.
"So what do you do, exactly?" She asks. "I.T. or some such?"
"Well, I was really just looking for some short-term temporary work. Data entry, that sort of thing."
"I don't think we have any jobs in publishing." she says inspecting my employment record.
"I don't want..." I start, but the receptionist cuts me off with one elegantly manicured finger and punches an intercom with another.
"Mischa?" She asks, "Do we have any jobs in publishing."
A burst of static replies, but it is good enough for the receptionist.
"No, we don't. Sorry."
"I don't want a job in publishing," I say, "Not specifically, I just need something short-term, temporary. Office administration jobs, data entry..." I hesitate, suddenly aware that the office does seem terribly grand "Am I in the right place? Do you deal with temporary work here?"
The receptionist nods.
"Oh yes." she says.
"So," I start, wondering if this is all part of the interview process: dealing with irritating receptionists, "Can I book an appointment to see someone?"
The receptionist smiles at me sweetly.
"We'll take this," she says, holding my CV with the sort of distaste normally reserved for those forced to clean up questionably moist toilet paper from the floors of public lavatories, "And we'll call you if anything comes up."
I leave, fuming. I do not hear from them again.

The next agency seemed more familiar. Half-way up one of the central towers, the office is neat but cramped. It feels human sized and the sort of place you would expect a company dishing out office dogsbody jobs would reside. This time, they understand the concept of data entry and I am made to set various further tests to assess my proficiency in the area, the results of which Alana, my new agent goes over with me.
"Well," she says, leafing through the papers before her, "You seem to type rather fast, for a man."
I don't really know what to say to that, so I just smile awkwardly.
Alana is very pleasant and she assures me that she'll "definitely" call if anything comes up. This all sounds very encouraging indeed and so I leave this office with much more optimism.
I call Alana many times during the following three weeks and she keeps telling me that she thinks "There's something coming." At first it was a prediction which sounded rather encouraging, now she sounds like some crazy fortune teller with a crystal ball, spouting whatever nonsense the client wants to hear so she can get him off the phone.
I call Honan, and Honan excuses himself to go to a meeting. He promises to call me back in the afternoon but fails to do so.

Still, it could be worse.

I phone two other employment agencies and ask if I can book an appointment to come in. Both ask instead that I email a CV to them and then reply with unencouraging form emails.
A third, whom I go to visit in person, again shoo me away after I have deposited my CV with them and later they send me an email informing me that "at the present, we have nothing available which might further your proposed career strategy."
I reply to them, politely clarifying that I do not have a proposed career strategy, I just want whatever they have the bottom of the pile. I want data-entry, filing work in basements, any old rubbish which people with proposed career strategies don't want and turn down.
They reply with an email thanking me for my email. I do not hear from them again.

But as I say, it could be worse.

Because the weather is getting better here and while it is still windy, I find myself spending the days, waiting by the telephone on the front veranda, with the distant bay glimmering on the horizon, the blue of the water competing with the blue of the sky. I put my feet up on the footstool, and lean back against the sofa and read through the books I have. The front garden is pink with scattered rose petals and rich with the smell of the honeysuckle climbing the porch.
The phone does not ring, it stays still and motionless beside me as I read. But as I said, it could be a lot worse.