A rude reception

A combination of factors including pregnancy, a dearth of jobs and a glut of overly qualified accomplished candidates (at least that's what I'm still telling myself) meant I was unable to secure permanent employment when we arrived in the UK. After months of rejection letters I joined a temping agency. Oh the joys.

From the start it was interesting. I emailed the agency and within an hour I got a phonecall asking if I could pop in. I was nearby at the time but unsuitably attired as it was snowing so I had my wellington boots on over my jeans. A bubbly recruiter called Dawn told me to come in anyway, they needed someone to start on Monday.

The job was at a nearby helicopter base where I'd be the receptionist for the week. When I arrived Dawn told me – deadpan - all they needed was someone to look nice at the desk. I swallowed my pride and said if they were willing to overlook my swollen stomach that should be ok. She asked if I would come by on Monday morning before work so they could check I looked "nice enough". I resisted the temptation to point out that this particular vetting process was potentially problematic within the confines of the law. I also resisted the temptation to ask whether she'd seen from my CV that I had spent a quite few years in professional offices and was capable of dressing myself, if not capable of securing a job. Of course I said none of that. My professional confidence was dim so I just went along.

After getting the seal of approval I tottered off to the airport. My duties were straightforward – answer the phone, transfer calls, sign in guests, and frank the mail. Hardly riveting stuff. What was riveting was the permanent receptionist who begrudgingly trained me for an hour before her week off. She got me up to speed quickly – thanks to new management the company's extremely tight, they don't even buy decent biscuits anymore, the Christmas party was cancelled that year, they barely give you a lunch break and, in addition to being tight, the new management are German, which she said in such a manner that she could well have said vermin.

I was told which office romances to watch, who was in the process of being made redundant and finally I was warned about the company's transgender employee. She had worked at the company for 15 years, the first 12 of those she was a he and now she is a she. My friend the receptionist said the doctor hadn't done a great job. I believe her exact words were "If it were me I'd ask for my money back. Wait til you see her. You know she still looks like a man but we can't really say that." No, I don't suppose you should.From there she proceeded to explain the mailing procedure and pointed out a stash of boxes under the desk of all shapes and sizes. Turns out my friend was running a semi professional Ebay site on the side. When I asked what she was selling she was very vague about the details. I thought it was best not to probe further but I did follow her instructions to keep those boxes hidden until the mail man arrived and give them to him at the last minute.

Her phone demonstrations were enlightening. She barked into the handset each time it rang, leaving the caller under no illusion that their phonecall was a rude, unwelcome and significant intrusion into her day. Had I not witnessed these exchanges I would not have believed the number of callers, who upon hearing my Australian accent at the other end of the line, were immediately taken aback. "Was I new?", "Was the witch gone?", "Where's the angry lady?" were  questions I heard from staff and clients alike.

I don't say this because I was a particularly happy receptionist but I think the absence of malice in my voice was a noticeable change. I ended up spending quite a few weeks at the helicopter base and it transpired as the best job I had here. And that's saying something.