Where Bee says I need to look like I'm "on the bones of my arse," for Job Centre

Because I lead such an exciting life, I know you'll be absolutely desperate to find out what happened at the  Job Centre yesterday afternoon, at the "Return to Work Seminar."
"Don't know what to wear," I complained to Bee,  "I was thinking of a combat helmet and  flak jacket after Wednesday's fracas in the Job Centre car park."
"Well don't wear anything too smart," she says,  "you need to look like you're on the bones of your arse.  I know what you're like, you can't go down there trying to look like a film star, so if you've got your Gucci sunglasses on the top  of your head, get them off."
I do as I'm told, huffily as it's sunny outside. Well, it might be, later on. (How does she know I'm wearing them, for goodness sake, we're talking on the phone?)  And so I wear what my friend Kitty calls the uniform of the middle class unemployed, Gap chinos, Boden cardi and lofa's. Half an hour later I find myself ensconced with a dozen other Job Seekers, in a darkened room, being lectured about getting a job.  At the end of a scintillating forty five minutes, during which six of the audience are texting merrily away, one man has a sausage roll and another next to me catches up on his sleep, Mrs Wolf, our lecturer, tells us about a few exciting opportunities that have just arisen . When she asks  "is there anyone here who would like to work from home," three of us put our hands up and stay behind for a minute or two at the end, so Mrs Wolf  can tell us about a wonderful opportunity called "Aspire."
"Successful applicants will be trained to answer a phone from their home, to take orders for large retail companies." She says. "It's very flexible, you can work as many hours as you like."
Hurrah, hurrah! Sounds brilliant to me, I can finish writing my book, take a few orders and make money at same time!
Man in front row, who told me he is unemployed fork lift truck driver, is not so impressed (or naive) as I am and says suspiciously.
"So let's get this reet pet. Yer gonna pay is five hundred quid to sit at home on me arse and ansa the phone for some posh shops? A divven't even have to gan oot of the house, or any shit' like that?"
"Err, not quite, Dazza," says Mrs Wolf,  but I'll give you the application pack and you can see what you think.  We troop out, I clutch my info and hurry home to read up on my marvellous new career. Can't wait to tell The Husband.