This morning I attended a seminar on finding a job.
Attendance was mandatory.
The reminder email explained that I had been booked into an interactive seminar, to uncover what support I might need to find work.
It also explained that attendance formed part of my work obligations while looking for work.
Then it outlined what to expect.
Then it explained again that attendance formed part of my work obligations, in case I had missed that the first time a couple of sentences ago. Or in the initial confirmation email. Or text.
I took this as a clue.
The waiting area was lit with the sort of fluorescent lighting usually associated with government buildings, hospitals and interrogation rooms.
The receptionist appeared to have reached a private arrangement with disappointment many years ago.
Three security guards patrolled the premises, which struck me as excessive.
Then I remembered why such precautions exist and decided to keep that observation to myself.
One of them maintained friendly eye contact longer than you might expect.
The seminar room itself somehow managed to be even brighter. And it was full of grown-ups, which surprised me.
Not because adults are incapable of attending seminars, but because I had unconsciously expected at least a few people for whom seek.co.nz and CVs represented exciting new information.
Instead, the room appeared to be full of people who had already lived substantial lives.
People who had worked and raised families.
People who had mortgages.
People who had accumulated enough experience to understand both what a CV is and where the Apply button can generally be found.
The presenter introduced herself and proceeded to work through material that, if we are being completely honest, could have been delivered by email, or AI.
And yet she was warm.
Not unbearably enthusiastic. Nor relentlessly upbeat.
Just warm.
The sort of person you would not mind finding yourself seated next to on a short flight.
She appeared to actually care whether the people in the room found work, despite having to deliver the same material every Tuesday and Thursday at nine o’clock.
I found this heartwarming and deeply reassuring.
Afterwards I was directed to a brief meeting with someone whose official role remains unclear despite his purpose becoming apparent almost immediately.
“Why are you sitting in front of me today?” he asked.
As I am in interview mode, I paused to consider my answer thoughtfully. And then abandoned that consideration.
“Because it’s part of the process,” I replied. “But I’m open to see if you can offer me anything other than the benefit.”
“Probably not to you, to be fair.”
It was one of the most honest conversations I have had in quite some time.
There was no theatre. No script. No attempt to pretend either of us was participating in a life-changing intervention.
We both understood why we were there.
More importantly, we both understood that the other understood.
The entire interaction lasted less than a minute and by 9.32am I was back in my car.
The seminar had not transformed my employment prospects.
The PowerPoint had revealed no hidden secrets.
My eligibility remained intact.
And yet I found myself reflecting on the unexpected humanity of the morning.
The lighting was unforgiving.
The furniture was functional.
The process was administrative.
The content seemed oddly disconnected from the audience.
But the people involved stubbornly refused to become part of the machinery.
The presenter remained kind.
The case worker was honest.
And on the way out, the security guard smiled at me again.
Not a customer service smile.
Not a polite smile.
A smile that suggested he had identified an opportunity and might have investigated further in a different setting.
The indication that I remain employable in at least one sense of the word was more encouraging than anything on the PowerPoint.
Particularly as it occurred under the most unforgiving lighting scheme known to man.
I arrived expecting bureaucracy. What I found were people.
Anyway.
I didn’t catch his name.