Inside information

Things are looking up at this job. I've managed to strike up what you might consider to be a friendship with an embittered blonde called Sara who has worked here for years. I get the feeling that she would have been sacked many moons ago if it hadn't have been for the fact that she's probably got something on each and everyone who works here. Relations with these sorts of 'permanents' (i.e. non-temps) can go either way- they can be super frosty or all too familiar, but at the moment Sara seems happy to come and sit on the edge of one of my desks and chew the fat with me for a while.

She has told me what she does, but I can't remember because it was most obviously made up job title ever. I think it translates as 'filing' and she seems to be in charge of some vague department round the corner. I never have to go there because Sara likes to come through and collect any messages for herself from me. Basically, she's a lazy cow. Lazy cows are always welcome because they make me look good.

I've not known her for long enough to get any serious dirt from her yet, but I can tell she's dying to spill as she sits there on the edge of the desk, dangling one ice pick-sharp stiletto off her foot. I'm just letting her get there herself- for me to come outright and ask for the scandal is against the temp code of conduct (which I'll write one day)- you don't want to look like a gossip and people who are willing to dish it aren't usually liked by other 'perms', so you've got to watch it. From the amount of eye rolling Sara's presence attracts from most other colleagues when they approach and see her, I'm guessing that Sara's been shoved down on this floor for a reason. As I said, she's no red-hot scandal for me yet, but she has hinted heavily the following:

- She's had affairs with half of the board (not hard to believe- she's attractive in a Cindy from Eastenders kind of way.

- Almost half of X department are cokeheads (hardly a huge surprise but she's telling it as if it's 1983).

- Quite a few women in Y department will take money for sex.

I see that I'm going to have to watch my step with this one, she could be dangerous.

Revenge of the Receptionista

Luckily my call centre hell was short-lived and I am now propping up the lovely reception desk at a large company in Soho. I feel like a lioness who's been away from her kingdom for too long, only to return to find that it smells a bit more like lion shit than she remembers.

The girl whose job this is actually got sacked last week and the temp originally drafted in turned out to be useless- no idea how to field calls, flimsy filing and was also caught painting her nails. Where the fuck did this broad think she was? The 1980s? Things have changed since the days where receptionists and secretaries would spend all day brushing their hair and dreaming about getting taken out in their boss's bright red Lamborghini. These days, we're receptionistas and a recep girl has got to be on the ball, a girl for all seasons but especially summer because if you're a top flight receptionista, honey, the heat is ON.

I'm not saying that it's all work work work, but it's the fine art of looking busy that separates the men from the boys- if you see what I mean. People who breeze in and out of reception don't need to know that I've been ordering my groceries all afternoon, do they? As long as I look up when someone comes in, smile and get back to glaring intently at the screen- pine fresh or citrus burst Harpic?- then it looks as if I'm doing my job.

As with every new assignment, but especially reception work, a few of the girls that work here have been down to introduce themselves. They like to come and have an nosey at the new girl and see if she's cleverer, prettier and thinner than they are. They'll proffer their hands, bedecked with Tania Turner style nails and jewels and say who they are. When I first started out in this game, I used to wonder why they would do this but then it clicked- the receptionista is the first point of access for all those calls from lovers/ shops/ husbands/ screechy gal pals, flowers from men, lunch orders, mail order deliveries etc. You name it, and it will be at my disposal.

Get on the wrong side of a receptionista, and your flowers will be withering a curling up in reception for hours after they're delivered, your lunch order will have cooled somewhat by the time the receptionista has finished pretending to chat up the delivery boy, calls from lovers will mysteriously be re-routed to dry rot helplines. In other words, you gotta be nice.

Tempgirl calling

My consultant called and asked if I wanted to do this assignment for another two weeks. I said only if there was absolutely nothing out there that would be any good for me. And I mean anything. Outbound calls are the pits because:

• Nobody wants to be called during Corrie/ Loose Women/ Cash in the Attic/ Deal or No Deal/ Quincy
• The sort of people that are in during the day don't usually have enough money to scratch their arse with so it feels like you're cheating them by offering them further 'drawdowns' on their mortgage.It's like they don't realise they have to pay it back.
• I hate being called a bitch or worse thirty times a day.
  

Another problem with working solely on the phones is that nobody has a chance to speak to you. In some jobs you're praying that none of the freaks engage you in chat but when the privilege is denied, you become rabid for conversation. Such is the starvation, no sooner does a cleaner say hi as you pass in the corridor than you're asking them all about their holidays and telling them about what you're planning on doing at the weekend. Receptionist jobs are best because you get to speak to more people and also float around passing on messages and just generally shooting the breeze.

I find out tomorrow if I'm trapped here for another fortnight. I sincerely hope not!

Pimp your temp

Agencies are, unfortunately, essential to the survival of any temp who wants to work regularly. Your agent or consultant is your pimp- if they like you and do good work for them you get to work for all the best clients, but if you don't measure up or don't give your consultant a good old ego massage, you end up at the scabbiest jobs that nobody wants with dreadful pay and conditions and, usually, no way out.

I went through my fair share of temp consultants in my time. If you're a guy, you're better off with a woman and if you're a girl, I think a man can serve you better. I don't know why this is- it just is.

On your first visit to a temp agency, you'll be interviewed in some way or another.. Your consultant- bored at having to see twenty hopeless wannatemps before you- will ask questions disinterestedly as you shuffle in your seat and wonder if this is a good idea after all. You'll be asked what kind of work you want to do, what your experience is and then depending on how modern your agency is, booked in to do some tests to make sure that you really do know Powerpoint inside out. These tests serve no purpose at all as far as I can see- they spit out results and statistics but they are only really forced on you to kill an hour while your consultant paints her nails or sexually harasses the office junior. I was once told I was a really fast touch typist by one agency. I am indeed, but only when I'm hitting the wrong keys- my consultant never even checked the accuracy, just that I'd managed to bang a few keys.

You'll then be told what's on offer at the moment. Occasionally, there are some dream jobs there. And then you wake up. Usually 75 per cent of them are the kind of shit people escaped from Kosovo to avoid, but it pays not to screw your face up too much as the options are explained. Try and be as honest as it's possible to be without taking your way out of a job. Go more for a "I'm not sure that I would have the necessary skills for that role" approach rather than a "stick it up your arse" gameplan. If you play ball and take the odd stinker, your consultant will eventually reward you for taking these shitty jobs off her hands and you'll end up in some of the high-flying temp roles like filing, booking train tickets and getting the boss's lunch.

Another day, another office

Well, here we go again. My voice is hoarse from all of the total bullshit I've had to come out with all day on my outbound sales calls. My role is to ring up people who are already crippled with exorbitant mortgage payments and try and persuade them to take out more money and make their mortgage even bigger. I get to sit down all day in a harshly-lit former warehouse, drink bad (but free) coffee and read off statements printed for me on neon card to try and get these suckers to say yes to a lifetime of debt and misery. Poor sods.

The people seem OK- well I assume so because nobody has spoken to me. My smiles are returned, which is a start I guess.

One downside of this job is that the security guard has got 'tit' written all over him. Not literally, of course. He was at great pains to point out that temps could only be admitted by him personally and nobody else. Forgetting myself, I asked what would happen if he dropped dead suddenly. "I don't think that will ever happen" he said. So we obviously have some kind of undead chief lock-keeper on our hands here. As he showed me to my desk, he said to me that all temps were kept in a separate coloured area so an eye could be kept on them, that it was for my own safety and I shouldn't feel singled out. I don't know what they're expecting me to do- run off with one of their up to date computers that's so old they keyboard is made of parchment? Go on a thieving frenzy in the stationery cupboard? Shove a headset down my bra?

I think Des was sorry to see me go from my old assignment the other day. He gave me his number and said to get in touch if was ever in the area. You can count on it that I will not be making that call.

My work here is done

Alas, it's my last day here tomorrow. I've sidestepped Des's drinks invite nicely by inventing a large Irish rugby-playing boyfriend who wants to take me out on the town for St. Patrick's Day. Poor Des.

My consultant has been in touch and says that there's no reception work going right now, but do I want a week in a call centre? A week in a call centre usually feels like 7 years in Tibet but beggars can't be choosers and as from Monday I'll be on outbound calls trying to get people to take equity release on their mortgage, which I've done before for a different firm. To say it's a nightmare is an understatement but I can always end the call if people get a bit frisky.

Let me check my diary

The unthinkable has happened and Des has asked me out for a drink. I'm insulted by this. I'm probably the only girl that hasn't recoiled in horror from his eerie grin, but surely he thinks I can do better than him. I'm no Kate Moss, but I like to think I'm out of this guy's league.

Sadly, my assignment here is due to end next Friday. Des has suggested we go along on the St. Patrick's Day that the firm is organising, despite not one of them being Irish at all. I've said I'll have to see what I'm doing. I don't want to piss Des off because it's good to have an ally of any sort- even one with bad teeth and a speed addiction.

I've told Ella, my new consultant at the agency, that I wouldn't mind doing a bit more reception work. Receptionists usually get the better chairs and meet a variety of people as opposed to being stuck next to a slobbering oaf all day. They also get unlimited access to a phone, and it's been a while since I spoke to a lot of my old university friends. I haven't really pissed her off yet so she's being really nice to me- she said she'd see what she can do.

10 lies you will tell your temp agency

1. Yes, that's right- I have a typing speed of 60 words per minute.

2. What did you say that phone system was called? Excalibur? Yes, I've worked with that. Oh, Scavenger? Er, well, yes, that too.

3. Weak points? My only weak points would be that I don't delegate enough and that I push myself too hard.

4. £6.50 per hour sounds great!

5. No, you're the only temp agency I've signed up with.

6. The assignment's going really well. Everybody's so friendly and helpful.

7. I left my last job because I wanted a fresh challenge.

8. Yes, that's right- all As for my A levels.

9. I faxed my timesheet through in the early afternoon- that should be enough time for you to process it!

10. I'd love the chance of going permanent at this job.

10 lies your temp agency will tell you

1. I'm sorry we don't have anything else that will suit you. You'll just have to stay in that assignment for now.

2. Sorry but [insert name of your consultant here] isn't available to take your call. Of course she's not avoiding you!

3. This assignment has excellent prospects.

4. You were my first choice for this assignment.

5. We don't seem to have received your timesheet. No, there's no problem with our fax machine

6. Yes, we've sent off your P60 do the emergency taxing should stop soon.

7. We said £7 an hour, not £10 an hour.

8. It's not really my job to look for jobs for you. You should be telling me about assignments you've seen on our website.

9. You'll be working in a modern, friendly setting.

10. We've got thousands of brilliant positions. Just keep checking back every day and I'm sure the right one for you will come along.

The partnership

Des has turned up. He's a balding twenty-something who doesn't like laundering his clothes and has an unhealthy obsession with speed and techno. We are 'working together', which means he's supposed to show me the ropes and help me get my hands around this weirdo system they have here for logging documents. He doesn't seem too keen to be showing me any kind of rope, though. He's too busy asking me what clubs I go to and have I ever heard this track or some other track. He's getting on my tits but at least he's not endlessly staring at them.

What I do like about Des is that supervisor Maura seems to have some kind of problem with him. I always champion the underdog- especially when it's being bullied by a shitfaced cow like Maura- so I've been extra nice to him and pretend to look really engrossed as she shows me for the seventh time what happens when I press Button A. According to Des, the girl I'm covering for is off indefinitely, so this might be a long one. I've brought in my own mug from home and have been stealing everybody else's hot beverages. I've built up quite a lovely collection of herbal infusions from the eternal slimmer six desks away.

Washed up

Hello, it's me again. My second assignment after the burns unit also involved the scorching of skin. Disillusioned with my first agency, I tried a new one who looked shocked when I told them what I'd had to do in my first job. My rep- a very bubbly blonde called Sandra- said that I'd have a much better time at Agency X and that they treated all of their temps like family. Well, remind me never to go round to hers for Christmas dinner, because the assignment was a shambles.

Sandra asked me if I'd ever done silver service before. One of the oldest tricks in the Temps' Bible is to lie whenever asked if you have a particular skill. Unless it's neuroscience or ukelele-playing, the chances are you'll be able to pick it up as you go along. So I said yes, of course I'd done silver service. I then went to make the lie even more horrific by claiming my parents had owned a high-class restaurant and that I had often stood in for the Maitre D. My parents never even went near a chip shop, let alone a restaurant, but I needed the money and a temp's gotta do what a temp's gotta do, right?

I arrived for my first day as a waiter at a huge marquee at the side of a racecourse. I was met by a stressed guy called Marcel (French name, Essex accent) who told me that he hoped he wouldn't have to fire me because all he'd done all week was fire shit waiters. I smiled and reassured him that I was the hottest piece of waiting ass this fucker was ever likely to get his hands on, inwardly shitting myself at my stupidity for lying.

He directed me to an Eiffel Tower of washing up and told me to 'get busy'. I duly did as I was told and made my way through it. It soon became clear that the only waiting I was going to be doing would be waiting for the sink to fill up with hot water. As my lunch hour approached, Marcel came to me and instead of letting me go on a break he grabbed me by the shoulders, shoved a huge platter full of meat in my hand and pushed me out of some swivel doors into a marquee lined with tables, at which sat some of the richest, fattest people I've ever seen. I did my best but my best didn't seem to be good enough for these toffs who looked to be really enjoying telling a 17-year-old what to do. As the sweat poured off my head into their lunch, I was told a million times that I was useless, impolite, surly and, oddly, too young- all without opening my trap once.

As the diners cleared out, Marcel once more grabbed me by the shoulders and flung me back to my sink station. When I asked if I could have a break, he told me I could go after I'd washed up. Now, if this was happening now, Marcel would have got a plate in every hole with ten dishes right up his arse, but I was young and clueless so I did as I was told. When I'd almost finished, I asked again about a break, whereupon Marcel fired me on the spot. My apron was ripped from me and I was forcibly removed from the marquee.

I visited Sandra the next day to explain the injustice. She looked me squarely in the face and said "If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the fucking kitchen, love. And don't think you're getting paid."