At the moment, I’m trying to apply for a course at my local adult education college. Trying is an appropriate word, because I so far haven’t been successful. ‘Trying’ could also describe the conversations I’ve had with various members of staff.

First off, let me say that I already had a fair idea about the efficiency of the FHC (Further & Higher College). I enrolled for several courses there last year, and although I enjoyed them very much, I had to suppress a moan every time I dealt with the administration.

The course I’m trying to join is a Microsoft Certified Professional (MCP) course called [deep breath] Microsoft Certified Desktop Support Technician: Supporting Users & Troubleshooting a Microsoft Windows XP Operating System [and breathe]. Before you get all sniffy about Microsoft, this college is the only one in my area, and it gets a lot of money & resources from MS, so I don’t have much choice in the matter. Plus, this course is pretty much in my job area - I’m quite looking forward to it, actually.

Chapter One
I’ve been waiting to see if I have enough money to do it this semester, so I’m a bit late applying. I fill in an online application, but don’t get a confirmation email, so I email them to check they received it. No reply, but the next week, I get a second-hand message that says if I still want to do the course I need to get in touch. I phone up Central Admissions to see if places are still available (it was heavily over-subscribed last year). I tell them what course I want to do. “It’s too late for telephone admissions,” they say. “You’ll have to come into the office.” Well, I work 9 - 5, and I can’t get time off; there isn’t anyone to cover my site. I haven’t even managed to re-book a dentist appointment I missed in October. “That’s alright,” they say, “we’re open ’til seven tonight.” Great! I’ll be there. I spend the rest of the day happy in the knowledge that I’ll soon be improving my education.

Chapter Two

Later that day…

I arrive at 5.30, debit card & prospectus in hand. I’m good to go. Or so I think. I tell the Admin Officer I want to apply for a course. “What course?” I get out my A3-sized (Why?) prospectus. “This one,” I say breathlessly. “The Microsoft one.”

“Oh you can’t apply for that here. You’ll have to go to the departmental office.” Ignoring the voice in my head going, “But? What? How… You said!” Luckily the departmental office is in the same building; even luckier I know where it is, since the guy’s directions are not clear. I go upstairs. By some stroke of luck (I’ve used up several months worth already today), the office is still open.

“Hi, I’d like to apply for a course. The office sent me up here.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Which course?” I’m getting the hang of this particular exchange. “The Microsoft one. 70-271.” Please, please, please… “Oh, you can’t just apply for that one. You have to speak to the tutor first.” I try to remember relaxation techniques. I think conversation is too strong a term for the following, but it goes like this:

“Well, would I be able to - ”
“He’s gone home for the day.”
“When would I be - ”
“I’ll give you his phone number, that’s probably best. You can get in touch with him.”
“That’s gr-”
“You can’t just join this course. You have to speak to the tutor first. He likes to have a chat with everyone before they apply.”
“Yes, I underst-”
“Here’s an application form. Once you’ve spoken to him, you can fill it in. Let me find some scrap paper. Here, this is his number.” She writes it down. I recognise it. I tried to call it several times over the course of the day to get information on the course. It’s been permanently engaged.
“Here’s the phone number. This is his email address.” She writes it down. “at [spells out name of college, letter by tedious letter] dot a - c dot u - k. Okay?” Yes it’s okay. You’ve just written it down for me. Presumably you’re going to give me the bit of paper, or is this some kind of memory test?
I thank her through gritted teeth. “So, when I’ve filled in the application form, should I bring it back h-” She ploughs in again, apparently unaware that persistent interruptions are not one of the tenets of good customer service. “Yes, bring it back here - but not until you’ve spoken to the tutor!”

Chapter Three

The next day…

I’m prepared for my phone call to the tutor. I know my qualifications are okay, but I don’t have the 6 - 12 months experience the Microsoft site recommends. I spend half-an-hour boning up on the syllabus, and marshall a few coherent reasons why I want to do the course, how useful it would be, further my knowledge of… blah, blah, blah.

The first 3 times I try, the phone is engaged. Undeterred, I keep trying. Yes! Finally, I get him. “Hi, my name’s —-. I’m calling about enrolling in a course.” “Which course?” Oh, for God’s sake. I tell him. “You’ll have to fill in an application form.” Okaaay. I have one of those. In fact, I’ve already applied once online. Never mind. I can do it again. He says he’ll email me the application. Do I have any other questions? No, I don’t have any questions at all. I thought he would have questions. Apparently not. “Don’t forget to put your email address on the form,” he advises cheerily. “We need it to tell you if you’ve been accepted.” You mean there’s some doubt? After this, I want a medal, not an evening class. I’ve lost confidence in these peoples’ ability to communicate in anything other than perhaps semaphore, anyway.

I receive the form. It’s subtly different from the form I was handed yesterday. So subtle, in fact, that I fill out the paper form I’ve got, so as not to waste it. After painstakingly filling in the whole thing, I realise my mistake. Print out a copy of the new form and fill it in rather haphazardly, as by now I’m bored with the whole thing. Realise I’m making a mess of it, print out another copy. Fill it in. Discover there isn’t anywhere to write about my “experience in the industry” which is apparently vital to getting me on the bloody course. Never mind - my experience in the industry mounts up to 3 months on the lowest rung of the IT support ladder (I have a phone and a list of people to call when something goes wrong), and a three-foot high stack of computer magazines. I summarise this in the 0.5 cm of space available, carefully using words like “supporting”, “end-user” and “customer-facing”.

This evening I am going back to the college to hand in the form. I don’t have an envelope or staples or probably any one of a number of pieces of stationery which are required for application form ettiquette, but I’m handing in the damn form, and they can stuff it in the tutor’s pigeon-hole or anywhere else they see fit. The worst part is that I know from experience that paying for courses is an even more unpleasant & convoluted process than applying for them.

To be continued?