MrsHughey.com

Name, Rank and Serial Number

Today I had an appointment at the Social Security office. About 3 months ago, I turned in an application for a National Insurance ID number. I could have sworn I wrote an entry about going to their office, but I don't see it in my archives. I guess I was too eager to forget the experience.

The ID number is required for me because I am employed. It's like your Social Security number in America. They use it to determine how much you are taxed and, should you become sick or disabled, give you benefits. There's a terrible backlog here for new numbers, so I just got a letter a month ago about my appointment, which was scheduled for today. Unfortunately, they scheduled it during work hours. I would have changed it to get a full day in, but didn't want to risk another 3-month wait. My employers are chomping at the bit for me to get a number. Anyway, this meeting was for me to "prove my identity," which means bring them a bunch of stuff that says I'm me.

So I walked over to the Social Security office, which is located literally in the back of the police station. You don't have to walk inside the police station, but it's in its back parking lot. I think they probably put it there for convenience. I imagine the police do a regular bit of business there.

As you walk up, you can smell the cigarettes around the corner. Even though it was daylight out, it seemed to get darker as I approached the doors. In front of the entryway were about a dozen men and women smoking. All were dressed rather shabbily. It looked like they had a lot of trouble making ends meet. Some of the women had a cigarette in one hand and were using the other to push a baby carriage. Lovely.

So as I go went the doorway one of the guys yelled, "Hey, gorgeous!" I was embarassed. Also, I assume he was intoxicated as that's generally when men say those sorts of things to me.

When you get into the building, the first thing you see is a machine with a big red button. You push the button and that is your number. Like at the grocery store. Or the bureaucracy store. So I was number 92. The couple in front of me, #91, were having a fascinating discussion about the previous day's fist fight in the office. Apparently a woman beat up a man because he had her pair of jeans and refused to return them. I don't ask questions, people, I just report! So as this was going on, number 86 was up at the counter trying in vain to smoothe-talk the woman on the other side of the bullet-proof glass (yes, that's right!) into giving him a check which did not exist. He came in from Dublin just for the day, he slurred at her. She did not look amused.

The entire wall was lined with bullet-proof booths for the employees. The first four were bank teller-style. Then there were four bigger booths where interviews or something take place (the clients, if you will, enter those with an employee), then there was the security booth with lots of uniformed officers behind bullet-proof glass.

So as #86 was trying to score a fat check, a person came up behind window #3 and announced, "Anyone here for a National Insurance number interview, please come to window #3." Bingo! I went up there, he entered my name and number (92!) into a little keypad, then instructed me to go to the security window and show them my number and the letter explaining about why I'm there. Okay. I did.

Security directed me to go through the door to my right (which they will unlock for me), down the hall, through another door, to the left, around the corner, and to another waiting room which, they assured me, was "just like this one." Now, as they told me this I was standing in the main waiting room, which was full of very tired-looking people and lots of tired-looking children. Most of them were thin and looked very poor. It was also very, very crowded.

So I went through the whole labrynthine directions to waiting room #2. I entered through a door to see that the waiting room was empty of people. There were rows of seats like the other waiting room, and a TV (turned off) mounted on the ceiling and CCTV cameras, but no people. The three walls I didn't enter off of were all just full of doors. Each door had a paper sign over it with a letter (A - F) and a little digital readout over the door saying either a number or the door's letter. It looked like only one or two rooms was in use when I got there. Another person came in, sat down, and was called by a voice over the loudspeaker. "Joe Smith, please report to interview room A".

I was just beginning to wonder if Lewis Carroll ever visited this office when Mr. "Anyone here for a National Insurance number interview, please come to window #3" popped his head out of Door E. This was very strange because the door I came in from, and Window #3 were in the complete opposite direction. But, hey, whatever! So he told me to go into Room C. So far, he hadn't steered me wrong, so I went in.

Room C invited me to sit with one of those two-seat fold-down benches. I sat and was in front of a desk with, what else, bullet proof glass from wall to wall. There was a red telephone on my side of the glass, a little tray like at the bank for passing documents back and forth, and a nice looking woman on the other side of the glass. On the wall behind her was a big red light with the caption, "panic button." LOL. She had a door behind her and through its window (which is shaded with blinds) I could see that there was a busy office behind the door.

I have since forgotten her name, but let's pretend I remember and we'll call her Shirley. Shirley invited me to sit down and told me this is an interview to prove my identity (I knew that from the two-page letter I got last month, which was mostly a list of documents/paperwork I should take with me) and that it should take an hour, maybe a little more. WHOA! I was a bit surprised because I expected it to take like 10 minutes.

Shirley asked me if I'd brought my "documents" and I told her I brought everything I could find. She asked for my passport, birth certificate, marriage license, NHS (national health insurance) card, letter of employment, and pay slip first. They look good so far, although the marriage license is not an original (it's a certified copy, the county has the original!) so she won't be able to use it with her paperwork. She got out a multi-page form and explained that she would ask me questions and fill it out on my behalf, then I'd sign it. Fair enough.

So she went through about a hundred questions. When did I come to the UK? When did I start work? What's my address? What's my work address? How did I support myself before I started working here? How many hours do I work? What's my doctor's address? From whom do I lease? Do I have a copy of the leasing agreement (yes, I do)? Why is the lease in someone else's (Andrew's) name? etc.

I answered all questions and finally got to look over and sign the paperwork. Next, I signed the copies she'd made of my documents to certify that they were mine. I signed "E Hughey" because the line to sign on was small. Now she had to go to the office behind her and show every bit of paperwork to her supervisor, who then checked for anything that might get the application sent back to them.

She came back into her cubicle the first time to ask about our address. Turns out the boss just read it wrong. No problem. The second time she came back to tell me that I should have signed my full first name on the copies because it now did not match my other signatures (on the form and on my copied documents). So she had to make a note in the application: "My signature appears as follows on my passport" and I signed there. The third time she came back, I had not signed the note enough like my passport signature. I had to RE-SIGN it right below where I just had, because I did not put enough "bumps" in my first name. uuuuh - okay.

Finally, she said it should be all set. I got my documents back and was allowed to leave. I had to go back out through Lobby #1, but I got to leave. It should be about 18 weeks before I get my ID number.

Posted by Erin at January 14, 2003 05:27 PM