Thank you for contacting Molly Bennett, Senior Constituency Caseworker to Andrew Sinclair, MP for Northwick East.
Molly will be out of the office on jury service as from Monday 28 March 2011, and is scheduled to return to work on Monday 11 April 2011.
During her absence, her colleague, Gregory Duke, has reluctantly agreed to help with your enquiry if - and only if - it is genuinely urgent, and does not involve any or all of the following: an inability to ensure that brides and grooms are not rendered headless in wedding photographs taken at the behest of a client; deliberate mistreatment of a horse used to pull a cart, and/or the mowing down of a Policeman carrying a speed gun, whether or not he or she is wearing a high-visibility jacket.
Mr Duke will also refuse to recommend that Mr Sinclair sign shotgun licence applications on behalf of any constituents whom he deems to be unstable. This includes (but is not restricted to) those of you who claim to see little green men in various locations, or who remain convinced that your neighbours are stealing your electricity.
Should any of the above scenarios sound at all familiar, Mr Duke suggests that you should start taking your prescribed medication again.
For those constituents with a tendency to suffer from stress-related hypertension, Mr Duke would remind you of his standard advice: that you take steps to avoid exposure to all newspapers and TV news. He places special emphasis upon avoiding The Daily Mail. (And The Economist, if you are a Labour policy-maker.)
Last, but not least, Mr Duke asks that all owners of fatmobiles check that they do not leave home to visit the seaside without having first charged their batteries, as he will be unable to spare the time to rescue stranded scooter-users while the office is short-staffed. He would also draw your attention (yet again) to the section of the Highway Code that clarifies the upper speed limits for scooting on pavements.
If, as a result of the application of the above criteria, Mr Duke should choose to designate your enquiry as non-urgent, please rest assured that Molly will deal with it as quickly as possible upon her return to work.
In the meantime, she wishes to make clear that, should you be minded to turn up at Northwick County Court in an attempt to contact her to complain about her colleague's classification system, she will not, under any circumstances, be able to discuss this with you. Not even during lunch-breaks or lulls in the court's proceedings.
She also wishes to emphasise that, should she recognise any defendant, she will immediately declare a conflict of interest to the court - thus ensuring that nothing can be gained from attempts either to bribe or intimidate members of her family or, indeed, most of her colleagues.
Showing posts with label Mobility Scooter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mobility Scooter. Show all posts
Monday, 28 March 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Bunions, HobNobs And Fatmobiles, Or How Vicky Discovers The Joy Of Helping Others.
God, there are riots and revolutions going on all over the place, but here at work, it's Groundhog Day. Or a parallel universe.
"There's an enormously fat man on a mobility scooter stuck in the corridor outside the lift," says Vicky, when she finally turns up at about 10:00am.
Greg and I look at each other, then both say,
"Mr Franklin."
"I don't know who he is," says Vicky, "but someone needs to go and rescue him. He's already knocked over the Weeping Fig."
"So why didn't you help him?" says Greg. "While you were in the vicinity, as it were?"
"He looked really grumpy," says Vicky. "And he was a bit smelly, too."
God knows why anyone who objects to either of those traits would want to work for an MP, but Vicky obviously doesn't see it as a reasonable hazard of the job. Which is how Greg and I find ourselves trying to manoeuvre a thirty-five-stone man and his fatmobile within a very confined space.
Not only is Mr Franklin no help whatsoever, but he also refuses to tell us how he managed to get through the security doors and into the lift without anyone noticing, and demands answers to questions about Coalition policies while we struggle to turn him around.
After he's covered bankers' bonuses and VAT, he starts on the NHS. It'll be the Ambulance Service next, probably when Greg and I have to be carted off by paramedics after collapsing with exhaustion.
"What are these reforms going to mean for my wife's foot operation?" he says. "I suppose they're bound to be an improvement, seeing as your lot did nothing to speed things up."
"Oh, I don't think that's true," says Greg, jerking the scooter rather viciously.
"Ow," I say, as Mr Franklin's shopping bag falls off the handlebar and lands on my foot.
"Watch out, you idiots!" says Mr F. "My HobNobs'll be nothing but crumbs by the time you two have finished."
Greg looks as if he can't think of anything he'd like better than to crush Mr Franklin's metaphorical HobNobs - if he could find them amidst all the extraneous flesh - so I have to step in before things get completely out of hand.
"Well, has your wife been back to see her GP, as I suggested?" I ask. "I did explain that she needed to tell him if her feet had got worse, because it's usually what's written in the GP's letter of referral that signals to the hospital how urgent a patient's case is."
"Saw the doc at the end of last week," says Mr Franklin. "He said he'd see what he can do - but he told me he's going to write to your boss, as well. He didn't look very happy, so he's probably going to give you a bollocking for doing bugger all to help."
"Um, I'm sure that's not true," I say. "Because we have done something. We wrote to the hospital about your wife's bunions ages ago, if you remember? And the Consultant's reply suggested that your wife see her GP again so that any changes to her condition could be assessed. Which was why I advised you to tell her that."
"Humph," says Mr Franklin. "All you lot do is pass the buck, isn't it? My Rose's feet are giving her gyp, and now her bloody cooking's suffering too."
Greg and I look at each other for a moment, but neither of us can think of a relevant response. Or not one's that's politically-correct, anyway - so Greg settles for crossing and uncrossing his eyes while grimacing instead.
"Was that everything you wanted to talk about, then, Mr F?" he says as, with a burst of energy born of sheer desperation, we finally manage to turn the scooter around so that it's facing the lift. He doesn't wait for Mr Franklin to answer before he says:
"Yes? Oh, good. Bye, bye, then."
He gives the back of Mr Franklin's seat a congratulatory slap while I press the button to summon the lift. Then we both leg it down the corridor as fast as we're capable of moving - which isn't very fast at all, as we're both completely knackered, and one of us is gasping for breath. I must give up bloody smoking.
We've almost made it to the end when the lift goes ping, and a plaintive sound assails us:
"Hang on, you two - what do I do when I get to the ground floor? You meeting me there in case I get stuck again?"
Greg turns round, and says,
"Oh, no - don't worry. There'll be a nice girl with long brown hair coming down in a minute. Just tell her we said that she'd been sent to help you. She's much stronger than she looks."
I raise my eyebrows, but Greg just taps his nose and winks. Then, as soon as we walk back into the office, he rushes over to his desk, and hides all of today's newspapers in the bottom drawer.
"Where the hell have the papers got to?" he says, rather louder than necessary.
Vicky and I both shrug, at which point Greg blames the disappearance on someone from the Party offices, and asks Vicky to go and buy some more.
"It's an emergency, so if you could do it straightaway, that'd be great," he says, as he puts a ten pound note into her hand. "A constituent said there was a big piece about Andrew in one of them, but I'm not sure which."
"Ooh, lovely," says Vicky, for whom the word gullible occasionally seems to have been created. "Maybe there'll even be a photograph!"
"Stranger things have happened," says Greg, as Vicky heads for the stairs and her date with destiny.
She doesn't come back for a very long time and, when she does, the look on her face suggests that this is yet another of Greg's good ideas that I'm going to regret going along with. Especially when she discovers that there isn't even a single quote from The Boss in any of today's editions.
How can she still not have realised that that's something to be very, very grateful for - unlike the opportunity to get up close and personal with a certain biscuit-loving constituent who's rather challenged on the personal hygiene front?
Who appears not to realise how lucky he is that he doesn't need to set himself on fire in order to make his voice heard. Unlike some poor buggers.
"There's an enormously fat man on a mobility scooter stuck in the corridor outside the lift," says Vicky, when she finally turns up at about 10:00am.
Greg and I look at each other, then both say,
"Mr Franklin."
"I don't know who he is," says Vicky, "but someone needs to go and rescue him. He's already knocked over the Weeping Fig."
"So why didn't you help him?" says Greg. "While you were in the vicinity, as it were?"
"He looked really grumpy," says Vicky. "And he was a bit smelly, too."
God knows why anyone who objects to either of those traits would want to work for an MP, but Vicky obviously doesn't see it as a reasonable hazard of the job. Which is how Greg and I find ourselves trying to manoeuvre a thirty-five-stone man and his fatmobile within a very confined space.
Not only is Mr Franklin no help whatsoever, but he also refuses to tell us how he managed to get through the security doors and into the lift without anyone noticing, and demands answers to questions about Coalition policies while we struggle to turn him around.
After he's covered bankers' bonuses and VAT, he starts on the NHS. It'll be the Ambulance Service next, probably when Greg and I have to be carted off by paramedics after collapsing with exhaustion.
"What are these reforms going to mean for my wife's foot operation?" he says. "I suppose they're bound to be an improvement, seeing as your lot did nothing to speed things up."
"Oh, I don't think that's true," says Greg, jerking the scooter rather viciously.
"Ow," I say, as Mr Franklin's shopping bag falls off the handlebar and lands on my foot.
"Watch out, you idiots!" says Mr F. "My HobNobs'll be nothing but crumbs by the time you two have finished."
Greg looks as if he can't think of anything he'd like better than to crush Mr Franklin's metaphorical HobNobs - if he could find them amidst all the extraneous flesh - so I have to step in before things get completely out of hand.
"Well, has your wife been back to see her GP, as I suggested?" I ask. "I did explain that she needed to tell him if her feet had got worse, because it's usually what's written in the GP's letter of referral that signals to the hospital how urgent a patient's case is."
"Saw the doc at the end of last week," says Mr Franklin. "He said he'd see what he can do - but he told me he's going to write to your boss, as well. He didn't look very happy, so he's probably going to give you a bollocking for doing bugger all to help."
"Um, I'm sure that's not true," I say. "Because we have done something. We wrote to the hospital about your wife's bunions ages ago, if you remember? And the Consultant's reply suggested that your wife see her GP again so that any changes to her condition could be assessed. Which was why I advised you to tell her that."
"Humph," says Mr Franklin. "All you lot do is pass the buck, isn't it? My Rose's feet are giving her gyp, and now her bloody cooking's suffering too."
Greg and I look at each other for a moment, but neither of us can think of a relevant response. Or not one's that's politically-correct, anyway - so Greg settles for crossing and uncrossing his eyes while grimacing instead.
"Was that everything you wanted to talk about, then, Mr F?" he says as, with a burst of energy born of sheer desperation, we finally manage to turn the scooter around so that it's facing the lift. He doesn't wait for Mr Franklin to answer before he says:
"Yes? Oh, good. Bye, bye, then."
He gives the back of Mr Franklin's seat a congratulatory slap while I press the button to summon the lift. Then we both leg it down the corridor as fast as we're capable of moving - which isn't very fast at all, as we're both completely knackered, and one of us is gasping for breath. I must give up bloody smoking.
We've almost made it to the end when the lift goes ping, and a plaintive sound assails us:
"Hang on, you two - what do I do when I get to the ground floor? You meeting me there in case I get stuck again?"
Greg turns round, and says,
"Oh, no - don't worry. There'll be a nice girl with long brown hair coming down in a minute. Just tell her we said that she'd been sent to help you. She's much stronger than she looks."
I raise my eyebrows, but Greg just taps his nose and winks. Then, as soon as we walk back into the office, he rushes over to his desk, and hides all of today's newspapers in the bottom drawer.
"Where the hell have the papers got to?" he says, rather louder than necessary.
Vicky and I both shrug, at which point Greg blames the disappearance on someone from the Party offices, and asks Vicky to go and buy some more.
"It's an emergency, so if you could do it straightaway, that'd be great," he says, as he puts a ten pound note into her hand. "A constituent said there was a big piece about Andrew in one of them, but I'm not sure which."
"Ooh, lovely," says Vicky, for whom the word gullible occasionally seems to have been created. "Maybe there'll even be a photograph!"
"Stranger things have happened," says Greg, as Vicky heads for the stairs and her date with destiny.
She doesn't come back for a very long time and, when she does, the look on her face suggests that this is yet another of Greg's good ideas that I'm going to regret going along with. Especially when she discovers that there isn't even a single quote from The Boss in any of today's editions.
How can she still not have realised that that's something to be very, very grateful for - unlike the opportunity to get up close and personal with a certain biscuit-loving constituent who's rather challenged on the personal hygiene front?
Who appears not to realise how lucky he is that he doesn't need to set himself on fire in order to make his voice heard. Unlike some poor buggers.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Green Ink, Faith In Humanity And Fatmobiles.
I wish mad constituents still used green ink. Now everyone's got a computer, it's much harder to work out what I should be careful when opening. (I still haven't got over the whole decontamination incident.)
Anyway, today I spot a lavender-coloured envelope amidst today's post, so I leave it 'til last. Then I stab at it with the letter opener, while my back is half-turned. Eventually I succeed in opening it - without cutting it in half for once, so my technique is definitely improving.
"What is it?" says Greg, from underneath his desk.
"Oh," I say, then, "Aww."
"What? What? Can I come out or not?"
"Yes," I say. "You'll never guess what it is, anyway."
"As long as it isn't any more bloody white powder and my manboobs are safe from being put on public display again, I don't care what it is," says Greg, sitting back down in his chair, and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.
"It's a thank you card."
"Piss off, Molly! Don't be ridiculous."
"See for yourself," I say, and pass the card to Greg. It makes both our days. I can't remember the last time a constituent said thank you after we'd got them a result. Not that I think you should expect bonuses for just doing your job, but a thank you never goes amiss.
It's not as if I even did much to earn this one, either - I only sorted out Mr Bradley's hospital transport, which should never have been overlooked anyway. He writes that he's now got his prosthetic leg, that he's managing "very well" and that he and his wife will be "eternally grateful" for what I did for them.
You've got to love Mr B, even when his thanks make you cry. It seems that I can cope with anything in this job - except for people being nice to me. Greg's quick off the mark with a reality check, though.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" he says.
"What does?" I bet I've got mascara halfway down my face.
"How some people are so reluctant to ask anyone for help, no matter how much they deserve it, and then all these other bloody whingers - " He waves his hand across all the files and letters on his desk.
"I know," I say. "But at least there's some hope while there are still people like Mr B around. Now answer the phone, and let me get on with all this. I've got the damned diary to do as well today, don't forget."
An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, all his new-found faith in humanity will be lost. The reason for this turns out to be that Mr Franklin has just phoned - from the seaside.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say.
"He took his fatmobile there, on the train," says Greg.
"And?" I can't see what's so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere. Because he's fat. That's the whole point, plus I am too busy trying to decipher an invitation from the Cuban ambassador. Flowery handwriting is very hard to read.
"And he's run out of petrol, for f*ck's sake. Halfway down the pier. Wanted me to sort something out."
"And did you?" I ask.
"If I'd been there, I'd have pushed him off the end, but as that's not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don't get out of here for a bit, I'll be needing the other AA. So much for a renewed sense of purpose," says Greg, as he puts his coat on. It won't surprise anyone that I decide to join him.
Anyway, today I spot a lavender-coloured envelope amidst today's post, so I leave it 'til last. Then I stab at it with the letter opener, while my back is half-turned. Eventually I succeed in opening it - without cutting it in half for once, so my technique is definitely improving.
"What is it?" says Greg, from underneath his desk.
"Oh," I say, then, "Aww."
"What? What? Can I come out or not?"
"Yes," I say. "You'll never guess what it is, anyway."
"As long as it isn't any more bloody white powder and my manboobs are safe from being put on public display again, I don't care what it is," says Greg, sitting back down in his chair, and wiping his forehead on his sleeve.
"It's a thank you card."
"Piss off, Molly! Don't be ridiculous."
"See for yourself," I say, and pass the card to Greg. It makes both our days. I can't remember the last time a constituent said thank you after we'd got them a result. Not that I think you should expect bonuses for just doing your job, but a thank you never goes amiss.
It's not as if I even did much to earn this one, either - I only sorted out Mr Bradley's hospital transport, which should never have been overlooked anyway. He writes that he's now got his prosthetic leg, that he's managing "very well" and that he and his wife will be "eternally grateful" for what I did for them.
You've got to love Mr B, even when his thanks make you cry. It seems that I can cope with anything in this job - except for people being nice to me. Greg's quick off the mark with a reality check, though.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" he says.
"What does?" I bet I've got mascara halfway down my face.
"How some people are so reluctant to ask anyone for help, no matter how much they deserve it, and then all these other bloody whingers - " He waves his hand across all the files and letters on his desk.
"I know," I say. "But at least there's some hope while there are still people like Mr B around. Now answer the phone, and let me get on with all this. I've got the damned diary to do as well today, don't forget."
An hour later, Greg demands that he be allowed to take an early lunch. He says that it is an emergency as, if he does not escape this madhouse, all his new-found faith in humanity will be lost. The reason for this turns out to be that Mr Franklin has just phoned - from the seaside.
"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," I say.
"He took his fatmobile there, on the train," says Greg.
"And?" I can't see what's so surprising about that. Mr F takes his fatmobile everywhere. Because he's fat. That's the whole point, plus I am too busy trying to decipher an invitation from the Cuban ambassador. Flowery handwriting is very hard to read.
"And he's run out of petrol, for f*ck's sake. Halfway down the pier. Wanted me to sort something out."
"And did you?" I ask.
"If I'd been there, I'd have pushed him off the end, but as that's not an option, I told him to phone the AA instead. And if I don't get out of here for a bit, I'll be needing the other AA. So much for a renewed sense of purpose," says Greg, as he puts his coat on. It won't surprise anyone that I decide to join him.
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