Like the ying and yang of life, I take happiness in knowing I have a job. Like the ying and yang of life, however, I become unhappy if this job turns out to be not what I expected. (Deep!)

Having arrived some two weeks ago, I have been frantically searching Auckland for work. My usual avenues of potential employment have been exploited: the internet, job agencies, newspapers, hostels (I have stayed in more than enough of these to realise they’re a great source of casual work), and to my pleasure, I thought I had landed on my feet (26/6). One recruitment agency gave me a role working for an internationally recognised telephone network, where I was basically going to be dealing with a new project by updating records of customers’ requests and suchlike.

However, after two days’ training it became clear that I was in fact going to be carrying out what I classify as one of the most demoralising roles in the work market –call centre work. Firstly, nothing is beneath me when it comes to work as I will do almost anything for money (flexible, I know, but I need something to keep me occupied as New Zealand daytime TV is even worse than the British equivalent). However, call centre work, in my eyes, is just pretentious and patronising. Putting on a ‘customer service pitched voice’, declaring your intentions and then only to have either the phone slammed down on you or to receive a barrage of abuse isn’t for me.

Aware of the reality that jobs are scarce in this part of the world, I felt lower than the proverbial snake when I told them I couldn’t work there anymore. I refused to communicate with Lysey as I went over the ramifications of my decision, and it was probably the lowest I have felt since I left England some two-and-a-half years ago. If I had continued in the role I know I would have become a grumpy, bordering on angry, person and Lysey doesn’t deserve that. Moreover, I am on a working holiday visa so my personal happiness is paramount, too.

I have since managed to get that chin of mine up, even though I am still unemployed. However, measures, not to dissimilar to those already outlined, have been taken and I am hoping on a result of sorts soon. I have signed up with four agencies so far, some good and some bad, plus I have applied for umpteen jobs online.

Out of the employment agencies that I have signed up with (plans are afoot to sign up with more), two of them remain to be my best possible hope. Out of the others, one I think I may have already alienated (they shouldn’t have given me a call centre role), and the other didn’t fulfil me with any great hope. The latter deals solely with labour employment, and admittedly so, to look at I am not the stockiest of people. Therefore, whenever I go for roles that require me to apply some elbow grease, I am always greeted with stares of amusement. Firstly, the starer will look me up and down, and secondly, he would attempt to give me the cold shoulder by declaring something like: “It’s hard work here – can you hack it?” Right on cue, this happened to me when I went to sign up with the latter agency.

Pre-empting their response, I answered all their questions. However, I am currently awaiting my IRD number (my tax number), but synonymously with New Zealand, things here take about two weeks to complete. (We’ve just got online, for example, despite applying almost two weeks ago. Moreover, our ‘internet connection’ is terribly weak, so we’re awaiting a ‘booster ariel ‘ to make things faster. I predict it will arrive in August!) Without the tax number, if I was to work for the aforementioned agency I would be deducted about half my hourly wage (it’s the same if I was to work elsewhere, but the point I am trying to illustrate is that the wages with this agency were scandalously low - $12.50 an hour to be precise. If I translate this amount to British sterling I would be on a whopping £4.80 an hour. Don’t forget, though, I am still without my IRD number, so I would need to half that generous wage once more. Note to self, stop translating wages and get an IRD number)

In my defence, I have applied for my tax number. In order to obtain one of these beauties, though, one is needed to produce two forms of ID. Exhibit A was easy – a passport would suffice, but exhibit B was tricky: they take anything with a New Zealand seal of approval (like a student card for example) or an international driving license. Considering I hold neither of those, I had to wait until I had a ‘letter of employment’ - my final hope as I am not in a position to gain anything else they would have accepted. Well, those two days at the unnamed phone company were useful as I managed to obtain a letter of employment. However, I am still awaiting my tax number despite applying for it last week (26/6) where I paid $10 to speed up the delivery process. According to the not-so-helpful-chap at the AA office (he was very blunt and even ruder) ‘I was going to receive it in 48 hours’, but 120 hours later I am still waiting. (Like I said, New Zealand likes to take its time)

Harping back to my work flexibility, the opportunity arose last Wednesday (1/7) for me to demonstrate it. Scouring the local hostels for any sniff of work, I had a stroke of luck when I walked into one based in Auckland CBD (what did I say about them?); as soon as I clambered up the stairs I was greeted by a demanding receptionist who enquired if I was after any work. After removing my headphones, my ears soon pricked up as he went on to explain the role. For that very afternoon a chap named Shawn was after a few men to lug Persian carpets.

There was no Shawn (I don’t know who he was and I never found out), but instead I, plus an Argentinean and an Israeli guy, worked with a family of Afghans who had a company selling the aforementioned front room luxury. Our job was to load up a lorry with the rugs and then unload it at the other end. It took us about five hours in total and I must have shifted over 200 carpets during that time. I must say, though, it was rewarding to get paid for a job well done. (My last such experience of this was back in April).

I was grateful to have something that was going to fill my time that afternoon. (This was just one day after leaving the call centre role, and I was still feeling down about things.) Like I said, I am desperate for something to keep me occupied. Furthermore, I have the routine outgoings to contend with so I obviously need the income. Recently, I caught a television show about the recession in New Zealand; the program was rather upbeat about the situation and it concluded with the advice to remain positive as markets fluctuate and things will get better. I am taking solace in that statement.

Lysey, by stark comparison, has found work already. She’s started a role for the same hotel brand that she worked for in Australia (24/6). I am happy for her as she hasn’t got the uncertainty of the temping world to deal with (plus we have one income coming in, but I am not going to be a kept man), but prior to landing this role she did apply to a few agencies about a variety of different roles. Amusingly, she informed me of one interview she had with an agency about a hotel role; before the interview began she offered her hand to the interviewee, but this person rejected her handshake, simply because of the fear of catching swine ‘flu. The hype in this corner of the world seems to be dying down (nobody has rejected my hand at any interview, but three people have died this weekend because of the virus) but I found this measure to be rude. If someone took this step with me I would be tempted to cough for the duration of the interview. Then again, I am unemployed, so maybe I would think twice. Still, I thought it was ridiculous.

Despite our financial situation (and this was before Lysey landed her role – 20/6) we decided that we owed ourselves a night on the tiles, just so we could have some fun, see the nocturnal activities that Auckland has to offer, and forget about our worries for the evening.

Whenever Lysey and I go out as a couple we often question who could get the most drinks bought for them if we had a competition. Of course, I never put a wager on this as I am a male and being one means that I am aware of the potential intentions of the buyer. (Call it a stereotype, but I am also of the knowledge that a man is more likely to part with his cash to buy a lady a drink rather than the other way around.) This night, however, we did set a challenge of sorts – who could get the first friend. At the time, we only knew each other, so we were very interested in stretching our social circle to more than the two of us. (It has since doubled in size, all because of Lysey’s workmates. Wednesday night is our regular quiz night at our local watering hole, The Albion, where our team seems to grow a new member each week.)

Anyway, to our amazement, we found some joint joy at our first port of call – an Irish bar in the city. Pulling the pints that night was an Irish chap called Conner, who we subsequently got speaking to. He too had travelled and as a result he knew no one within the vicinity. Therefore, he asked for our number, all with the intention of arranging a beer or five. (I gave him mine as Lysey didn’t know hers at the time) However, he’s turned out to be just like all the rest of them: he hasn’t called, he hasn’t text, he hasn’t written (why would he have written? He didn’t get our address, but you see my point). Timewaster! Maybe he was after Lysey’s number instead.