–by way of Hell– and and back again
(Only in the other direction!)
Two different days, two different faces.
Tuesday Bluesday
The weather was foul and so was the sciatica. Not too surprising after my marathon hobble the previous day. Any thought of saving my seven pennies out the rain-spattered window! Then disaster, I couldn’t find my PIN! Anywhere. Time was ticking. Fortunately I had an emergency Tenner from <no names> my valiant social worker which I regard as a loan Mr A. By the way!
Anyhoo the nearest bus stop being bereft of shelter and being already soaked in a sudden downpour, I decided to hoof it up t’hill in the general direction of Honey Lane heights and the school there. Feeling certain that there there must be a bus shelter. Nope! Sadly my timing was as faulty as my memory or, more likely, I was slower than usual and I failed to reach the stop in time as a 66 whistled past. Oh well… Thus another jaunt to the next potential shelter. At least by walking I was keeping warm. Standing in that chill wind and driving rain was fatal! Walking had its drawbacks too. Unfortunately by this time the spray from various white vans had saturated my top trousers and the inner joggers were damp. No matter, we soldier on…
There was no bus shelter by the sheltered accommodation where Honeylands TB hospital used to stand. Once upon a time, in the dark days of the post-war recovery –and my childhood– the much reduced population of Waltham Abbey only had two hospitals. Now in these glorious halcyon times we have none. Bus shelters ditto. Bus shelters a-plenty in Loughton and Epping of course.
But I digress.
Worse was to come. I was close to the next stop when I was passed by a bus just as I was getting to its non-shelter. However, bless, he seemed to be waiting; so I upped my hobble to as fast as I could go—about half as fast as a snail’s pace and when I was just ten yards or so short the ‘so-and-so’ pulled away!
Imprecations don’t come close to what I had to say and we have Warlocks as well as White Witches in Waltham Abbey. Curse the man.
Fortunately the next stop had an old abandoned and vandalised telephone box redolent with the smell of piss. There I took my stand. I was going to be late for my first Jobsworth Job Centre Interview!
The phone box leaked…
Then a happy coincidence, a bus that actually stopped to my hail. Notagiven!
Thus it was I arrived in good time but in state of shock!
Having walked the best part of a mile in the rain, I had saved no money: £3.70 pence. Single. Almost a month’s bread! Almost a month’s food!
So there I stood, dripping on their nice clean parquet. Shivering. Now soaked to the skin Now chilled to the bone. Trying to catch someone’s eye!
I was studiously ignored! And there I had been, with visions of several ounces of human kindness if not a full pound: “you poor dear” and “we’ll put the kettle on!” Fatchance!! Indeed it was amusing that, as I people watched, as the staff caught my eye: they suddenly seemed to busy themselves on various tasks. No real surprise I was probably quite a sight!
Oh God. Oh let it not be me! You could almost read their thoughts.
Eventually one brave soul -Kudos my dear- approached and asked me what I was doing. I explained I had an appointment with <no names> and wanted to stand next to a radiator to dry out. Sadly she told me they had none; indicating the multitude of radiators behind the chairs and desks of the staff –as they bustled and busied themselves– then suggested I stood in the corner. Not quite like a naughty schoolboy but, as I related, I was dripping on their nice parquet! By now I could feel myself freezing solid so I started pacing. Sitting down would be a disaster! The joggers drenched in short order by the outer work trousers!
Then my slot came up and I discovered the true horrors of IDS’s bastard creation.
Servants of the Machine. Poor things. [E.M. Forster applies.]
As a matter of principle gathered by the wisdom of years I have always found that a governmental label is its complete antithesis. Vide the Americans with their “Operation Enduring Freedom” that has plunged Iraq, and the region, into a pit of “Fitful Slavery.”
A Jahannum by any other name…
Hence “Universal Credit” becomes “Selective Debt.” On day one I owed them fifty pounds! Only a Tory ghoul could turn a Benefit paid out after paying National Insurance into something that is further owed to the State. One predicts that, like America, once the system becomes vaguely profitable it will be privatised and J.P. Morgan and their like will get the benefit of government money out of not paying benefit for spurious reasons.
I explained I didn’t want the money, want the loan. Merely to relocate my place of pilgrimage and penance to Waltham Cross DHSS: a mere hours walk and a five minute bus ride away. Versus Loughton DHSS –who have a history…– lying some three hours away along an unlit and unpavemented set of narrow lanes. Then a hack through Epping Forest [Witches; Wolves and Worse: dirt bikers!] and thus saving the aforementioned cost of seven pounds forty pee: a monthly food bill per weekly interview! — Once upon a time we “signed in” once a fortnight, Sigh!— Hence a further £29.60p in the red before the first benefit is paid. A month in arrears.
Or not paid, in my case.
Sadly before I have even committed to my ‘Commitments’ I have already fallen foul of them. Caught a head cold and possible ear infection. Naturally this will have cleared by the time I see a Doctor.
[Edit: Or not! The receptionists at the medical centre took pity and I have an appointment this Sunday!]
After I left, I missed the bus -again- owing to its rather circuitous route and was thus waiting on the next in the chill wind for a good half hour; it was close to six p.m. before I was out of my sodden clothes. All three layers! Which are still damp when I reluctantly put them on to struggle down to the Library and begin pecking out my CV. Commitments…
This effort, one hopes, a far more profitable affair. Oh Ghost in the Machine, the Singularity to be…
One curiosity out of the whole benighted business: one of my commitments, amongst a whole plethora of stumbling blocks, is that one to accept work within a 89 minute commute… Eighty nine minutes?! In any vaguely human context: an hour and a half. Presumably some random number the Machine has picked out of the Big Blue. [IBM refers…] Still some two hundred and forty-one minutes less than the time that it took for for me to fall at the first hurdle.
A final quibble. In any rational society a quote Job Centre unquote should be helping one to find jobs. Alas they seem to lack simple computers with the elementary software to enable such a task. Like that of OCRing my scanned CV. Now, thanks to the Machine, a tiresome and labourious re-typing of the whole affair.
Go figure.
As I remarked to my ‘Job Coach’ –despite the soulless efficiency of the Machine– a lot more primitive than I thought it would be!
Naturally as a “Benefit Denial-Severence Mechanism [BD-SM >:-] ” Loughton DHSS will excel. No change there. No Future. No Thirty.