Doom, gloom summoned to see Winz

There's a certain sense of dread entering a Work & Income building.

In my albeit short career as a columnist my two-part feature on Winz certainly evoked some passionate feedback.

Some readers wrongly assumed I had posed as a beneficiary for the sake of a story while others thought it was great "tell-it-like-it-is" journalism. High praise indeed, considering I am not a journalist, but my ego thanks you.

So, to set the record straight, I would like to make it clear that I was then and still am today an unemployed single mum with a passion for writing and either the stupidity or bravery to speak my mind, depending on how you view it.

Well, it's been a few months since Winz introduced new rules and guidelines for beneficiaries, complete with tougher penalties and consequences for those who choose not to conform.

As a result of this new policy I have been required to visit Winz twice, with a third meeting scheduled for Monday.

Over the next two weeks I will be sharing those experiences with you in my usual tongue-in-cheek style.

It all started with a letter. You know ... the one with the Winz logo which, even before you open it, gives you this sense of impending doom. For some inexplicable reason it just puts the fear of God in you.

Depressed just at the sight of it, I opened it to discover I had been summoned to the Concrete Jungle to meet someone who would explain the new criteria to me.

Despite the fact I had been given a set appointment time, previous experience had taught me to be prepared for a long wait. Though tempted to pack an overnight bag, I opted for something a little smaller - I packed a water bottle, magazine, thermos, cut lunch, Valium, Panadol and an emergency supply of patience and, having advised the withered old crone and the life forms that I may be late for dinner, with my stomach in knots I tentatively headed off to face my fate.

I was able to find a park with relative ease and was hopeful this fortuitous start was a good omen.

Unlike on my previous visit, the elevator was actually working - I couldn't believe my luck, things were going almost too well. That was until I stepped into the reception area and saw the all-too-familiar slow-moving queue.

I'm kicking myself now for not bringing my fold-up camp chair.

The problem could be solved by issuing clients with a number on arrival, letting them sit and calling them when ready. Instead we are left standing and, as the line grows ever longer, we take on the appearance of cattle waiting - just like lambs - for the slaughter.

Drones (a reference to the Beehive hierarchy, not a derogatory term that many accused me of) are primarily seated at their desks, most client chairs are empty though and, apart from the tedious trudge back and forth to the photocopier, there is little sign of life or vibrancy.

The security guard sits idle at a desk for the entire duration of my visit; moving only once to sign for a package delivered by a courier.

Great work if you can get it.

After what is a pleasantly short wait in line, I am officially checked in and told to take a seat.

Based on what I wrote previously, I am acutely aware I may not be the most popular client there that day. I am half expecting that my name is red flagged and that, at any moment, I will be abducted and dragged into the deep, dark bowels of the building never to be seen again.

Instead, I am greeted warmly by a smiling drone who, back at her desk, informs me that she is my permanent case worker. Yay, finally some bloody continuity - the gods must be smiling on me.

My case worker is a pleasure to deal with. She is informative, seems genuinely interested and helpful, and she talks to me, not at me. She tells me what is expected and warns that noncompliance will result in being sent to "the other side". It sounds ominous and I can't help wonder what atrocities are performed over there.

I'm tempted to disguise myself as a giant water cooler, stealthily infiltrating their ranks, to expose the truth, until I realise how bloody ridiculous the idea is. Have faith, good readers, I will find a way.

I can only speak for myself when I say that, so far, my experience at the Concrete Jungle has been a markedly improved one, but it's not over yet. Join me next week for part two. Will the elevator still operate? What is on "the other side"? Is the security guard, in fact, a remotely controlled puppet? All will be revealed.

Please accept my invitation to reveal your feedback to investik8@gmail.com - maybe you've been to "the other side" and have lived to tell the tale. I'd love to hear from you.