The Breakneck World of Agricultural Insurance
With an enormous dollop of assistance from the information extravaganza that is Leah’s resumé, I’ve transformed my own scatterbrained attempt at a curriculum vitae into something a little more presentable.
Being laid off by a dot com is now becoming something I’m getting quite professional at. I’ve got work at my current job until the end of June, so at least I’ve got some buffer time to locate another position. Still, this is the second time this in five months I’ve been laid off. You’ve simply got to now take these jobs with the knowledge that things are a bit unstable in general.
So I’ve analysed how I feel about everything, and come to the conclusion that I love the kind of work I do enough to withstand an ever-present threat of retrenchment. Unfortunately, the job market doesn’t appear to consistently agree with me. The last time I was looking for a job - about three months ago - there were heaps more tech positions going in Sydney. I can’t believe how much the job market has altered itself.
Working in an industry I’m not specialised in may be a likelihood I’m forced into. There have been a few scrapings of tech jobs I’d be able to do going around, but I imagine every other tech-minded person is scrambling for these like a heroin addict feverishly raiding their parents’ house for hockable goods. A little pissed off initially, I began applying for every job I believed I could remotely take on.
This was a mistake. I started getting phone calls about ridiculous positions I’d applied for online with extravagant disregard - most notably a slightly unsettling position listed as ‘DREAM JOB!!!’, which as far as I could tell involved organising cocktail parties for a ‘high-flying socialite couple’. The description even made vague references to drug running. I’m not sure what aspect of my resumé they were attracted to - perhaps the grotty government call centre work I did a couple of years back (I could have some inside tips on how to avoid the authorities?) - but the woman who contacted me was very persistent in attempting to arrange an interview.
(Sidenote: my employment website of choice, Seek, appears to disallow singular use of an exclamation mark. They appear in series of threes, and threes only. Eg: SANDWICH HAND!!! or DATA ENTRY OPERATOR!!! Makes them all sound like musical productions, doesn’t it?)
Not wanting to be too much of a job snob, I decided I’d have to face the facts and start seriously applying for non-web related jobs. The problem was that I had no idea what I wanted to do. I can type pretty damn fast and my organisation skills are excellent (well, Microsoft Outlook’s tasklist function is excellent, but I don’t tell recruiters that); so I’ve been applying for a lot of sales team co-ordinator roles. I take on a bit of this kind of work at my current job in online advertising, so I’ve got a little bit of experience to place my faith in.
After being contacted by an employment agency in the city, I arranged to have an interview with a friendly enough sounding man. I took the morning off work (we’re thankfully allowed to have half a day off work whenever we need to have an interview) and made my way to a building which appeared to have been at the height of architectural design artistry in the late 70’s. There’s a lot of these buildings around Sydney, but I’m sure the red brick merged with concrete look will come back into fashion some time soon.
No sooner had I disembarked from the elevator and entered the recruitment agency, when the receptionist snarled at me, hissing for daring to step into her immaculate reception.
‘We take a photo of you first here,’ she barked; then whipped a digital camera from nowhere and proceeded to begin photographing me. Immediately I was on edge: what if these recruiters had to choose between me and someone else for a job, and they accessed our database records to compare us? I was positive they wouldn’t select the person who looked like he’d just used the toilet and realised there was no toilet paper.
‘Sit,’ she commanded, as if I was a disobedient animal. I scampered over to the seats on the other side of the reception area, plastering a permanent smile on my mug for fear of an additional kamikaze photography incursion.
A tall bearded man soon entered reception and, noticing my unusually over-enthusiastic expression, forcibly grinned back at me.
‘I’m Ron,’ he introduced himself, and lead me to his office. I looked around as I swam through cubicled employment consultants, all buzzing between themselves. The place seemed to be talking to itself.
‘Meeting room,’ Ron pointed at a door we were standing in front of, which featured an enormous sign reading ‘Meeting Room’. Stifling a laugh, I was amused at such a statement of the obvious.
We entered the room and I pointed at the seat in front of me. ‘Chair,’ I joked, chuckling. The laughter was not returned, instead a frown and sigh. Making some quick calculations, I realised I was pretty fucked so far at obtaining this job.
As we began the usual job interview proceedings, I noticed that he had a pastel-toned postcard featuring a decidedly vomituous religious poem. Brightening up somewhat, I decided that he’d apply his good Christian faith, probably see through my faults and make a decision based on my true abilities for the position.
My mind tuned onto autopilot as I fired back responses to most questions. I’d done this so many times before that I knew answers to most queries that would be thrown my way. Unfortunately, I stumbled badly on one particular question.
‘So why did you apply for this job - what attracted you to it?’ Ron asked, chewing thoughtfully on his pen.
‘The ridiculously large flashing GIF and excessive use of the Comic Sans font,’ I nearly replied, but instead responded with a stuttering answer. ‘Uh, it… um… well, I’ve been in dot com jobs, and… well, I… I wanted something out of my comfort zone.. yeah.’
Ron’s eyebrows manoeuvred themselves in such a way that they appeared to be crossing themselves, akin to someone folding their arms. It didn’t take a degree in body language to know I’d answered that one incorrectly.
‘Well, Jeb, that’s, uh…’ Ron thought. ‘Well, it can be a bit of a fucking cunt trying to change industries, can’t it?’
WHAT?! What happened to all the God stuff? He’s not supposed to say words like that! Crap! Now my employment chances really were up the duff if he’s merely a modernist style Christian.
The interview abruptly halted and Ron thanked me for my time. Everything felt markedly unfinished - I didn’t even undertake a computer skills test, normally an integral recruitment agency procedure! This was like going to France and not being insulted by a local!
As I walked out of the building, taking care to avoid the carnivorous receptionist, I realised it would be wise not to get involved with any job applications I’d made that I wasn’t honestly interested in. Not only was it a waste of both parties’ time, but it can become increasingly difficult as you weave yourself closer into a job application to make a hasty retreat.
There was one position I had in mind - the office manager role I’d applied for in an agricultural insurance company. The woman at that company seemed a little too excited about my application - as if nobody else had even looked at the job because of the droll monotony it appeared to entail.
Let’s face it. An agricultural insurance organisation isn’t the most pant-wettingly exciting kind of company I can think of.
Quickly dialling the company, I prayed for the relieving non-confrontation of voicemail. Unfortunately, I was answered by the woman who’d organised my interview.
‘Hi, it’s Jeb here - I have an interview with you on Monday,’ I said.
‘Oh?’ the woman replied, immediately on edge.
‘I’ve, er…’ I realised I hadn’t concocted an excuse, and went for something which I thought was plausible. ‘I’ve just been offered a job, so I’m going to accept it - I won’t be attending our interview on Monday.’
A long pause, a tsking sound, then a sigh. ‘Are you worried you might not enjoy agricultural insurance?’ she asked.
‘DOES TACO BELL GIVE YOU THE TROTS?!’ I wanted to scream at her, but witheld my emotions. ‘No, no, nothing like that, I’ve just been offered a… rather good job.’ A white lie, really; because any job I’d be offered would be better than working in agricultural insurance.
‘You needn’t worry,’ the woman attempted to comfort me. ‘I was a little worried about how I’d feel working with agricultural insurance when I started here, but now I relish it.’ I immediately ruled out the possibility that this woman had a sex OR social life.
‘It’s probably just not my thing,’ I admitted. ‘You’d be able to find someone better to do the job, I’m sure - I’ve never had office management experience, anyway,’ I excused myself.
She seemed desperate to retain what appeared to be her sole job applicant. ‘Look. I’m sure you’ve had contact with agriculture a lot through your life but you’ve just never realised it. Where did you grow up?’ she prodded.
‘Torquay,’ I replied.
‘See?’ she exploded. ‘Farms all around you!’ she cried in victory.
‘Well, it’s more beach than farm,’ I corrected. ‘And there’s a lot of rainforest type area down the Great Ocean Road, too,’ I added as an afterthought.
She exhaled forcefully. ‘Think of a time when you’ve been involved with agriculture.’
‘Um… I’ve been to the Royal Easter Show a couple of times,’ I slowly decided.
‘There you go! The biggest agricultural event of the year,’ she cried.
‘But all I really did was eat a battered hot dog and make myself sick on a ride,’ I explained. ‘I think I looked at some guinea pigs or donkeys or something, but they fucking stunk.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped indignantly. ‘You’re obviously not up to par with the world of agricultural insurance anyway,’ she minced, and hung up.
She must be right. I’m no contender at all for the breakneck world of agricultural insurance. I’d rather hold out for a dot com job any day.