"So," I say, when Max finally wakes up this morning. "Lots and lots of love, eh? Or, rather, L - U - V."
"What?" he says. "I've no idea what you're talking about."
"This," I say, as I put his leaving card into his hand. "Hardly what you'd expect someone who's just a colleague to write, is it?"
Max doesn't even pause for thought, even though he still looks half-asleep. He's already decided how to play this one.
"Honestly, Molly," he says. "Bambi - I mean, Gemma - is just being friendly, that's all."
"Yes," I say. "And black is white, and the earth is flat."
Max glares at me, and then stays silent for the rest of the day, though I try not to admit that I've noticed. He's only trying to make me feel that I've over-reacted, and if I don't watch out, I'll start feeling guilty, or seeing shades of grey all over the place.
Displacement activity's urgently required, so I phone Greg for a chat. It's the best I can do at such short notice.
"How was the march, then?" I say. "Did you behave yourself?"
"Yes, I did - and it was really good," he says. "Apart from those bloody so-called anarchists and the negative coverage on the TV. Oh, and Ed, of course."
"Ah," I say. "I did wonder what you'd make of his speech."
Greg sighs heavily before he replies, which doesn't bode well at all.
"Ed is awful," he says. "We all left at 3:00pm when he started to speak. I'm glad we did, since I found out the rest of what he said."
Honestly, what hope has Ed got if Greg can't handle listening to a word he says? It just doesn't bear thinking about. We've got a General Election to win - sometime in the next four years.
"Didn't you say Max is always moaning about how the Party only cares about the public sector?" says Greg.
"Yes," I say. "The Party and the unions. Max says we're all completely out of touch with anyone who doesn't work for the state, or isn't on benefits."
"Hmm," says Greg, "Sometimes I think he could be right."
The drawn-out pause that follows this remark only serves to remind me how many constituents seem to share Max's views - and who claim that people only engage in vocal opposition to cuts that affect them directly, and don't give a damn about anyone else. Whatever happened to ideology, and taking a wider view of what's best for society?
Now I'm starting to sound like Dad, which is very unnerving, to say the least. He's always saying that democracy is government by the most vocal minority - which is depressing enough in itself, but isn't half as bad as what Greg asks next:
"You read that article about the People's Policy Forum in The Economist, Mol?"
"No," I say. "Since when do you read that?"
Honestly, what is happening to everyone I know? You just can't tell who is harbouring right wing views these days. Apart from Nick Clegg, of course.
"I don't," says Greg. "Usually - but Carlotta's just emailed me the link. Hang on, I'll send it on to you."
"No need," I say, opening my in-box and scrolling through the spam. "It looks like she's already copied me in."
"Read it, then - and concentrate. It says we need to face up to unpleasant facts. I'll call you in five minutes, to give you time to take it all in."
Greg's so bossy sometimes - whereas I am far too compliant for my own good. Or for my comfortable view of the world.
I read as fast as I can, shudder a bit, and then grab my mobile and go outside for a cigarette. I may even decide to smoke two in a row.
"Hello again, Mol," says Greg, when he rings back. "Still believe the earth is flat?"
"No," I say. "Nor am I convinced that black is white, or even grey. Unfortunately for Max and a certain semi-literate faun."
Showing posts with label Nick Clegg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nick Clegg. Show all posts
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Monday, 14 March 2011
An Uncharacteristic Crisis Of Conscience, And The After-Effects Of Too Much Rolling News.
God, I'm tired. I've become a 24-hour news junkie, completely incapable of tearing myself away from the coverage of what's going on in Japan.
I knew I'd lost it last night when I was still sitting on the sofa at 3:30am, watching open-mouthed as reports came in about the second reactor at Fukushima having exploded. As the newsreader spoke, a red banner ran along the bottom of the screen, saying that a three-metre wave had been spotted off the North-East coast of Japan. How much more can one country take?
I just can't get my head around what I'm seeing, the scale of it, or the numbers presumed dead. And I want to slap everyone who phones today to complain about what I'd usually consider to be legitimate problems. As for those with totally imaginary ones, don't even get me started on them. It would be all too easy for me to become an axe murderer, and massacre a whole swathe of the usual suspects.
I'm not the only one, either. After a particularly pointless conversation with Mr Franklin about the "bloody unreasonable behaviour" of his GP who has apparently had the temerity to warn him about his (40 stone) weight, Greg slams the phone down and kicks Mr F's case file across the room. It doesn't go very far, though - the damn thing's much too heavy for that.
"These f*cking people," says Greg, while hopping on one foot. "I listen to them and I wonder what the hell kind of society we've created. Look at how the Japanese are behaving compared to our bunch of whingers. It's a bloody good job Mr F doesn't live there. At the first mention of a food shortage, he'd start eating passers-by. And complaining if anyone even tried to object."
"I know," I say. "When Steve Ellington just tried to tell me a tsunami joke, I wanted to kill him - very, very slowly. So now I'm going to have a cigarette."
"I'll come with you," says Greg, as he switches the answer-phone on. Which just goes to show how disaffected we feel today - seeing as we almost never turn it on, except in emergencies, or when we think the only alternative would be to resign with immediate effect.
We sit on the low wall outside the office, Greg eating Haribos as if they're going out of fashion, and me chain-smoking. It's odd how global disasters affect you that way. Instead of causing you to feel that you should do everything you can to take care of yourself and to make the most of the life you're lucky to have, they make you feel so powerless that you just don't give a sh*t about being sensible.
"Are Haribos made in Japan?" says Greg, chewing more slowly now.
I give him a filthy look - at which he raises his hands in a helpless gesture and then says,
"Sorry, Mol. I feel a bit hysterical for some reason. I can't seem to think about the bigger picture - it's just too big. How on earth do the people who have to deal with the clear-up cope?"
"I don't know," I say. "Imagine being the first on the scene in Minamisanriku. I'd just stand there, frozen. How would you even know where to begin? And, as for what's going on with the nuclear reactors, how did that happen?"
Greg stands up, ready to go back inside, but I remain sitting on the wall. I'm not capable of dealing with more constituents yet.
"What do you mean?" he says. "It's obvious. The tsunami and the quake; loss of coolant; then overheating. I thought you said you'd been watching the news 24/7?"
"I have," I say, lighting yet another cigarette. "That's not what I mean. I'm thinking about how a country that suffered so much as a result of nuclear bombs came to depend on the same process to generate their power. And what the hell has happened to my thinking on this stuff? Maybe there's such a thing as being too cynical and too bloody pragmatic by half."
Greg looks blank, but then he's entitled to. He's never read Hersey's Hiroshima or Where The Wind Blows, and he's never even heard of Protect and Survive.
He's too young for any of that - or to have any detailed recall of Chernobyl. He wasn't even born when Three Mile Island happened, and would still have been in nappies when I was wearing a beret covered in CND badges and campaigning for Northwick to become a nuclear-free zone.
The highlight of that episode was when I was promoted to sit on the regional committee of CND - which was when funny things started happening with my phone. It would ring, I would answer and, lo and behold, there'd be another committee member at the other the end of the line. So what, you might well say. That's what Alexander Graham Bell intended all along.
And you'd have a point, if it wasn't for the fact that then there would follow a confused conversation during which it would become clear that neither of us had called the other - or anyone else for that matter. Both our phones had just rung at exactly the same moment - many times, over weeks, if not months - purely by coincidence.
I know I'm starting to sound just like The Boss, what with his obsession about the office phones being bugged, but I was pretty *convinced mine really was at that time. I was also equally sure that I was near the top of the list of people the authorities intended to round up and imprison at the first sign of a nuclear war. And utterly convinced that the anti-nuclear cause was well worth fighting for.
I try to explain this to Greg, who asks how old I was when all this was taking place.
"Probably not much younger than you are now," I say. "But where the hell did that Molly go? When did I become the sort of person who reads all the bumpf we used to get sent when we were in government telling us that nuclear power was now the only way we could provide for the UK's energy needs, and just nods in acknowledgement instead of going and chaining myself to a fence somewhere?"
"Well, that stuff was true," says Greg. "We were going to run out of power if we didn't face up to the situation. And you know better than anyone that reality has a nasty way of f*cking with political principles. Even Nick Clegg's managed to grasp that concept since the General Election."
"I know," I say. "But what scares me is that I didn't even notice it happening to me."
*convinced - I was - and, to a certain extent, these fears later appeared less crazy than you might think, as per: this and this. See? I told you I wasn't as bonkers as The Boss. Not that he need have worried if he'd been an MP during that time. He'd have had his nice warm bed in a nuclear bunker guaranteed.
I knew I'd lost it last night when I was still sitting on the sofa at 3:30am, watching open-mouthed as reports came in about the second reactor at Fukushima having exploded. As the newsreader spoke, a red banner ran along the bottom of the screen, saying that a three-metre wave had been spotted off the North-East coast of Japan. How much more can one country take?
I just can't get my head around what I'm seeing, the scale of it, or the numbers presumed dead. And I want to slap everyone who phones today to complain about what I'd usually consider to be legitimate problems. As for those with totally imaginary ones, don't even get me started on them. It would be all too easy for me to become an axe murderer, and massacre a whole swathe of the usual suspects.
I'm not the only one, either. After a particularly pointless conversation with Mr Franklin about the "bloody unreasonable behaviour" of his GP who has apparently had the temerity to warn him about his (40 stone) weight, Greg slams the phone down and kicks Mr F's case file across the room. It doesn't go very far, though - the damn thing's much too heavy for that.
"These f*cking people," says Greg, while hopping on one foot. "I listen to them and I wonder what the hell kind of society we've created. Look at how the Japanese are behaving compared to our bunch of whingers. It's a bloody good job Mr F doesn't live there. At the first mention of a food shortage, he'd start eating passers-by. And complaining if anyone even tried to object."
"I know," I say. "When Steve Ellington just tried to tell me a tsunami joke, I wanted to kill him - very, very slowly. So now I'm going to have a cigarette."
"I'll come with you," says Greg, as he switches the answer-phone on. Which just goes to show how disaffected we feel today - seeing as we almost never turn it on, except in emergencies, or when we think the only alternative would be to resign with immediate effect.
We sit on the low wall outside the office, Greg eating Haribos as if they're going out of fashion, and me chain-smoking. It's odd how global disasters affect you that way. Instead of causing you to feel that you should do everything you can to take care of yourself and to make the most of the life you're lucky to have, they make you feel so powerless that you just don't give a sh*t about being sensible.
"Are Haribos made in Japan?" says Greg, chewing more slowly now.
I give him a filthy look - at which he raises his hands in a helpless gesture and then says,
"Sorry, Mol. I feel a bit hysterical for some reason. I can't seem to think about the bigger picture - it's just too big. How on earth do the people who have to deal with the clear-up cope?"
"I don't know," I say. "Imagine being the first on the scene in Minamisanriku. I'd just stand there, frozen. How would you even know where to begin? And, as for what's going on with the nuclear reactors, how did that happen?"
Greg stands up, ready to go back inside, but I remain sitting on the wall. I'm not capable of dealing with more constituents yet.
"What do you mean?" he says. "It's obvious. The tsunami and the quake; loss of coolant; then overheating. I thought you said you'd been watching the news 24/7?"
"I have," I say, lighting yet another cigarette. "That's not what I mean. I'm thinking about how a country that suffered so much as a result of nuclear bombs came to depend on the same process to generate their power. And what the hell has happened to my thinking on this stuff? Maybe there's such a thing as being too cynical and too bloody pragmatic by half."
Greg looks blank, but then he's entitled to. He's never read Hersey's Hiroshima or Where The Wind Blows, and he's never even heard of Protect and Survive.
He's too young for any of that - or to have any detailed recall of Chernobyl. He wasn't even born when Three Mile Island happened, and would still have been in nappies when I was wearing a beret covered in CND badges and campaigning for Northwick to become a nuclear-free zone.
The highlight of that episode was when I was promoted to sit on the regional committee of CND - which was when funny things started happening with my phone. It would ring, I would answer and, lo and behold, there'd be another committee member at the other the end of the line. So what, you might well say. That's what Alexander Graham Bell intended all along.
And you'd have a point, if it wasn't for the fact that then there would follow a confused conversation during which it would become clear that neither of us had called the other - or anyone else for that matter. Both our phones had just rung at exactly the same moment - many times, over weeks, if not months - purely by coincidence.
I know I'm starting to sound just like The Boss, what with his obsession about the office phones being bugged, but I was pretty *convinced mine really was at that time. I was also equally sure that I was near the top of the list of people the authorities intended to round up and imprison at the first sign of a nuclear war. And utterly convinced that the anti-nuclear cause was well worth fighting for.
I try to explain this to Greg, who asks how old I was when all this was taking place.
"Probably not much younger than you are now," I say. "But where the hell did that Molly go? When did I become the sort of person who reads all the bumpf we used to get sent when we were in government telling us that nuclear power was now the only way we could provide for the UK's energy needs, and just nods in acknowledgement instead of going and chaining myself to a fence somewhere?"
"Well, that stuff was true," says Greg. "We were going to run out of power if we didn't face up to the situation. And you know better than anyone that reality has a nasty way of f*cking with political principles. Even Nick Clegg's managed to grasp that concept since the General Election."
"I know," I say. "But what scares me is that I didn't even notice it happening to me."
*convinced - I was - and, to a certain extent, these fears later appeared less crazy than you might think, as per: this and this. See? I told you I wasn't as bonkers as The Boss. Not that he need have worried if he'd been an MP during that time. He'd have had his nice warm bed in a nuclear bunker guaranteed.
Friday, 4 March 2011
E.T. - Make An Appointment To See Your MP. Everyone Else Is Doing So.
It's mayhem when I arrive at work. Greg's wearing a party hat with *Dan For Barnsley handwritten on it, and The Boss is glued to his mobile - phoning every LibDem he knows to congratulate them on their party's "historic result."
It takes all my powers of persuasion to calm things down in time for surgery, which is going to be double its normal length today, as so many people want to see The Boss. God knows why - constituents obviously have no idea how pointless MPs surgeries are.
First they make an appointment, and then they wait for days, or sometimes weeks, while worrying about how they are going to present their cases to Andrew.
Then, when the day of the appointment finally comes around, they travel to the office, where they have to sit in the waiting room with a load of the usual suspects, before finally being shown in to the presence of the great man, who is probably only half-listening anyway.
After being asked for a brief explanation of their problem - much briefer than they've anticipated - they then get five minutes of um-ing and ah-ing, followed by The Boss telling them to go home, stop worrying and to leave it us. (Us being a very relative term.)
So I have no idea why constituents put themselves through this farce - when all they really need to do is phone the office, or send us a letter, to achieve a better result three times as quickly. Unless they find Andrew much more appealing in the flesh than Greg and I do.
Mind you, I wouldn't want The Boss to always be spared the agonies of dealing with constituents, especially the usual suspects, who are out in force, thanks to the bloody National Archives. Dealing with (non) reality is character-building, after all.
"Bloody hell," says Andrew. "Does everyone want to talk about UFOs today? Is no-one interested in The Fightback?"
"Don't you ever watch the news?" I say. "I blame the BBC. And the Government, who've decided to close the department that investigates reports of sightings."
"Yeah," says Greg. "And we all know who has to handle this stuff instead of the *MOD now, don't we?"
The Boss looks blank, so Greg decides to bring him up to speed.
"MPs like you do, Andrew," he says. "Except that you don't have to deal with these nutters, because Molly and I do it for you. Sparing you the joys of people like Mr Aitchison, who phones up every time an alien appears at the foot of his bed. Or John Newman -"
"God, yes - he's the worst," I say. "Does he have to go into quite so much detail about where the aliens insert their probes?"
"Can't say I blame them," says Greg. "I'm often quite tempted to shove something up his jacksie too."
The Boss perks up at this. Some men never grow out of finding the mention of bottoms funny.
"I bet that's what Nick Clegg felt had happened to him," he says. "When he heard his Party had come in sixth."
*Dan Jarvis, winner of the Barnsley by-election - details here. Look away now if you're Nick Clegg.
*MOD - Ministry of Defence. Missing a number of Harrier Jump Jets and an aircraft carrier, as well as a department to investigate UFOs.
It takes all my powers of persuasion to calm things down in time for surgery, which is going to be double its normal length today, as so many people want to see The Boss. God knows why - constituents obviously have no idea how pointless MPs surgeries are.
First they make an appointment, and then they wait for days, or sometimes weeks, while worrying about how they are going to present their cases to Andrew.
Then, when the day of the appointment finally comes around, they travel to the office, where they have to sit in the waiting room with a load of the usual suspects, before finally being shown in to the presence of the great man, who is probably only half-listening anyway.
After being asked for a brief explanation of their problem - much briefer than they've anticipated - they then get five minutes of um-ing and ah-ing, followed by The Boss telling them to go home, stop worrying and to leave it us. (Us being a very relative term.)
So I have no idea why constituents put themselves through this farce - when all they really need to do is phone the office, or send us a letter, to achieve a better result three times as quickly. Unless they find Andrew much more appealing in the flesh than Greg and I do.
Mind you, I wouldn't want The Boss to always be spared the agonies of dealing with constituents, especially the usual suspects, who are out in force, thanks to the bloody National Archives. Dealing with (non) reality is character-building, after all.
"Bloody hell," says Andrew. "Does everyone want to talk about UFOs today? Is no-one interested in The Fightback?"
"Don't you ever watch the news?" I say. "I blame the BBC. And the Government, who've decided to close the department that investigates reports of sightings."
"Yeah," says Greg. "And we all know who has to handle this stuff instead of the *MOD now, don't we?"
The Boss looks blank, so Greg decides to bring him up to speed.
"MPs like you do, Andrew," he says. "Except that you don't have to deal with these nutters, because Molly and I do it for you. Sparing you the joys of people like Mr Aitchison, who phones up every time an alien appears at the foot of his bed. Or John Newman -"
"God, yes - he's the worst," I say. "Does he have to go into quite so much detail about where the aliens insert their probes?"
"Can't say I blame them," says Greg. "I'm often quite tempted to shove something up his jacksie too."
The Boss perks up at this. Some men never grow out of finding the mention of bottoms funny.
"I bet that's what Nick Clegg felt had happened to him," he says. "When he heard his Party had come in sixth."
*Dan Jarvis, winner of the Barnsley by-election - details here. Look away now if you're Nick Clegg.
*MOD - Ministry of Defence. Missing a number of Harrier Jump Jets and an aircraft carrier, as well as a department to investigate UFOs.
Friday, 25 February 2011
A Nasty Surprise, Though Obviously Not To The Office Of National Statistics
Blimey, I can't help feeling that the *ONS know more about our lives than they're letting on. I'm pretty sure I'd score ten out of ten for anxiety today, following the news that Max eventually decides to impart over breakfast this morning.
He's scraping burnt toast while studiously avoiding eye contact, when I decide I can't take it any longer.
"When are you going to start speaking to me again?" I say. "It's bad enough at work with The Boss giving me the silent treatment half the time, without you doing it at home as well."
Max looks at me, then chucks the piece of toast into the bin.
"Mol," he says, rather wearily. "You're the one who isn't speaking to me - ever since last night when you randomly decided that I must have been shagging someone when I was actually at a work meeting. You didn't even look away from the TV when I came in, and you've been scowling like a maniac ever since."
"That's because Question Time was on," I say. "Which effectively means that I was working while I was watching. And what you don't seem to realise is that I saw who dropped you off last night - that bloody annoying Bambi girl. So no wonder I'm scowling. I've got a damned good reason to."
I don't add that I could also smell alcohol on his breath, or that he looked pretty stressed out at the time. As you would, if you'd been cheating on your wife with an airhead whose only topic of conversation seems to be chocolate brownies. And who wears exactly the shade of lipstick that was smeared across his cheek. I am either becoming an absolute model of restraint - or a total coward.
"Correct as far as it goes," says Max. "Seeing as Bambi - bloody hell, I mean Gemma - did give me a lift home. But along with two other staff, who you surely must also have seen if you were spying on me properly."
"I wasn't spying," I say. "I was closing Josh's bedroom curtains, and I didn't even have my glasses on."
"That explains that, then," says Max.
He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure he's counting to ten under his breath. You can always tell when he's concentrating. His breathing goes all funny.
"So why were you all so late, then?" I say. "It must have been a pretty important meeting if you had to work later than I do. Was there a table facing deportation, or a bunk-bed that was about to be evicted or something?"
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mum," says Josh - who has appeared from nowhere as teenagers often do. "For God's sake, give Dad a chance to tell you what's going on."
There's nothing so frightening as a big build-up, is there? Better late than never, I realise that something serious must have happened, so I abandon the attempt to eat my porridge and raise my eyebrows at Max instead.
My stomach feels a bit jittery, but I try my best to ignore it by recalling Nick Clegg's brilliant faux pas yesterday, which has served to make me laugh every time I've thought about it - until now, when it no longer seems to work at all.
I can feel the anxiety mounting while I wait for Max to tell me whatever it is that is causing his agonised expression. Is he going to tell me he's leaving me for a chocoholic faun? Surely he wouldn't do that - not in front of Josh, anyway? But it must be something bad, because he obviously doesn't know where to begin.
I gesture at him to hurry up, and finally he starts to speak.
"The shop's closing," he says, as my stomach does a rather stunning Lutz, followed by what must be at least a triple toe loop. "They may transfer some of us elsewhere, but if we even want to be considered for that, we all have to re-apply for our jobs."
"Elsewhere?" I say. "Where else?" (In normal circumstances I'd be awfully chuffed with the neatness of that reversal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Not by a very long chalk.)
"Either the store in Meadowbridge, or the one in Hansford," says Max. "Either way, they're a hell of a distance from here. And that's if I get through the interview process in the first place - which, as I'm the oldest member of staff, doesn't seem very bloody likely."
I'm so shocked that I don't know what to say, but I've got a funny feeling the ONS must have seen this coming. Why else would they only want to know how happy I was yesterday?
*ONS - Office for National Statistics, charged with trying to assess the nation's happiness levels, amongst other things.
He's scraping burnt toast while studiously avoiding eye contact, when I decide I can't take it any longer.
"When are you going to start speaking to me again?" I say. "It's bad enough at work with The Boss giving me the silent treatment half the time, without you doing it at home as well."
Max looks at me, then chucks the piece of toast into the bin.
"Mol," he says, rather wearily. "You're the one who isn't speaking to me - ever since last night when you randomly decided that I must have been shagging someone when I was actually at a work meeting. You didn't even look away from the TV when I came in, and you've been scowling like a maniac ever since."
"That's because Question Time was on," I say. "Which effectively means that I was working while I was watching. And what you don't seem to realise is that I saw who dropped you off last night - that bloody annoying Bambi girl. So no wonder I'm scowling. I've got a damned good reason to."
I don't add that I could also smell alcohol on his breath, or that he looked pretty stressed out at the time. As you would, if you'd been cheating on your wife with an airhead whose only topic of conversation seems to be chocolate brownies. And who wears exactly the shade of lipstick that was smeared across his cheek. I am either becoming an absolute model of restraint - or a total coward.
"Correct as far as it goes," says Max. "Seeing as Bambi - bloody hell, I mean Gemma - did give me a lift home. But along with two other staff, who you surely must also have seen if you were spying on me properly."
"I wasn't spying," I say. "I was closing Josh's bedroom curtains, and I didn't even have my glasses on."
"That explains that, then," says Max.
He rolls his eyes, and I'm pretty sure he's counting to ten under his breath. You can always tell when he's concentrating. His breathing goes all funny.
"So why were you all so late, then?" I say. "It must have been a pretty important meeting if you had to work later than I do. Was there a table facing deportation, or a bunk-bed that was about to be evicted or something?"
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mum," says Josh - who has appeared from nowhere as teenagers often do. "For God's sake, give Dad a chance to tell you what's going on."
There's nothing so frightening as a big build-up, is there? Better late than never, I realise that something serious must have happened, so I abandon the attempt to eat my porridge and raise my eyebrows at Max instead.
My stomach feels a bit jittery, but I try my best to ignore it by recalling Nick Clegg's brilliant faux pas yesterday, which has served to make me laugh every time I've thought about it - until now, when it no longer seems to work at all.
I can feel the anxiety mounting while I wait for Max to tell me whatever it is that is causing his agonised expression. Is he going to tell me he's leaving me for a chocoholic faun? Surely he wouldn't do that - not in front of Josh, anyway? But it must be something bad, because he obviously doesn't know where to begin.
I gesture at him to hurry up, and finally he starts to speak.
"The shop's closing," he says, as my stomach does a rather stunning Lutz, followed by what must be at least a triple toe loop. "They may transfer some of us elsewhere, but if we even want to be considered for that, we all have to re-apply for our jobs."
"Elsewhere?" I say. "Where else?" (In normal circumstances I'd be awfully chuffed with the neatness of that reversal, but these aren't normal circumstances. Not by a very long chalk.)
"Either the store in Meadowbridge, or the one in Hansford," says Max. "Either way, they're a hell of a distance from here. And that's if I get through the interview process in the first place - which, as I'm the oldest member of staff, doesn't seem very bloody likely."
I'm so shocked that I don't know what to say, but I've got a funny feeling the ONS must have seen this coming. Why else would they only want to know how happy I was yesterday?
*ONS - Office for National Statistics, charged with trying to assess the nation's happiness levels, amongst other things.
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Some Other Stuff I Bet Half Of You Didn't Know About Housing And Unemployment.
I know I go on about housing a lot, but honestly - there's such a lot to go on about. And it's no wonder more and more young people are needing The Boss' help.
How the hell any of them are supposed to leave home and become independent is quite beyond me - unless they come from the sort of background that Dave and Nick do, of course.
I'm sitting at my desk at lunchtime, still feeling awful about what happened in Moscow - even though it has got me off the hook about meeting Johnny tomorrow - when the intercom buzzes and a young woman called Rachel asks if she can talk to me about her housing situation.
When I go down to talk to her, it quickly becomes clear that her case is pretty complicated, so I assess whether her manner and appearance lead me to hear The Twilight Zone theme - which they don't - and then bring her back upstairs and into my office. (She isn't wearing metal-framed glasses, either.)
"I'm sorry to have to bother Mr Sinclair about this," she says, "But someone with influence really needs to understand how it is for young people, especially when more of us are unemployed than anyone else."
"Don't worry about bothering Andrew," I say. "He won't mind at all. That's what he's here for."
Honestly, sometimes I make myself feel nauseous with my blatant hypocrisy. What I should be saying is that The Boss won't even know of her existence and has bugger-all influence with anyone these days, anyway - but that wouldn't exactly be reassuring, would it?
So I carry on trying to find out about Rachel's situation - which is bloody grim, and turns out to represent yet another great big hurdle that those with permanent homes or jobs and sufficient income give no thought to whatsoever.
"So you're unemployed, then?" I say, to which Rachel shakes her head.
"Not yet, no," she says. "But my year's contract runs out in a month's time and there's no money for it to be renewed, and although I've applied for loads of jobs, and have got one interview, that isn't until a week before my existing contract ends. So even if I get the job, I'll still be unemployed for a few weeks at best."
"Oh, I do hope you will get the job," I say.
I've taken a liking to this girl - in fact, I'd employ her tomorrow - seeing as she already seems about ten times more competent than Vicky. Or The Boss, for that matter. But now I'm getting distracted, so it's back to housing. Or to the lack of it.
Rachel goes on to explain that being unemployed isn't actually her main concern. Because becoming homeless is.
"I moved to Northwick to take up my current job," she says, "so I took a lease on my flat for a year as soon as I started work. But that runs out a couple of days after my employment contract ends, and I haven't managed to find anywhere else to live yet."
"Ah, I see," I say - though when Rachel continues, it seems that actually I don't. Yet.
"I can't stay in the flat I'm living in, because it's slightly too expensive for Housing Benefit to cover the full cost of the rent while I'm still trying to get another job, but I can't find anywhere else through any of the agencies."
Rachel pauses, and corrects herself:
"Well, I have found one place that would just about be affordable," she says,"but now everything's going wrong and it looks like I'm still going to end up being homeless by the end of February."
It takes ages to get to the bottom of what is going on, partly because tears keep rolling down Rachel's face, and then she stops to apologise for crying as she scrabbles for tissues in her bag. I don't blame her, actually. If I was in her situation, I'd put my head on the desk and bawl like a baby.
It turns out that the flat Rachel's found through an agency is at a rent that is reasonable enough to be covered by Housing Benefit during the time that she's between jobs. But the trouble started when she didn't tell the agent that her current job was about to end, because she was scared that the owner of the flat wouldn't accept a tenant who might end up on benefit, for however short a period that might be.
"I asked the agent what questions they asked on the reference and credit check forms," she says. "And he said that they only want to know the start date of your current contract, and the name and address of your employer - so I thought the landlord wouldn't need to know that I might be unemployed - especially as I'm determined it won't be for long."
She looks apologetically up at me, as if she has something to be ashamed of.
"I'd probably have done the same myself," I say. "If I was in your position."
I'm not being polite either - I'd do whatever it took to avoid becoming homeless, though I'm not sure Rachel believes me. She does smile, though, and then continues with her story.
"So I decided to apply for the flat - as it was the only one I could find at such a low rent - and told the agent to start the process of checking me out to see whether I'd be approved. I had to give him £200.00 to pay for that, and then he gave me the forms to fill in and to give to my employer."
"So the £200.00 was your deposit then?" I say. "Or will you have to pay rent in advance on top of that?"
"Oh, God, yes," says Rachel. "And my bond, too. The £200.00 was only to cover the agency's fee for assessing whether I'd make a suitable tenant. I'll have to find the money for the bond and the rent in advance - before I can claim back the other bond I had to put down on my current flat. So that's one of my big problems. I only earn £13,500.00 a year anyway, so trying to find that kind of money when I first moved to Northwick was hard enough, but it's even worse having to find a second lot and more agency fees, while I'm still paying rent on the flat I'm in until the end of next month."
You can tell from the way that Rachel talks about her family that there is no chance that they can afford to help her out. She's apparently one of those bright kids who made good through working hard at school: born and brought up on a council estate, but now a graduate in one of Michael Gove's favoured academic subjects.
I bet her family thought their daughter's future would be brighter than theirs had been - until the bloody credit crunch blew that out of the water in the year she graduated. Instead of building a career, Rachel's already had one long period of unemployment since she left her Russell Group university, and she seems understandably anxious that she might be about to start another.
"I'm going on about it, aren't I?" she says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to - but I'm just so angry that no-one in power seems to get what it's like for people in my situation, so I felt I had to come here to try and make my voice heard. I know you can't really do anything quickly enough to help me, but maybe Mr Sinclair could try and argue for changes to help other people in my situation - though I don't know what exactly. I'm having trouble thinking straight."
"Have you been approved for this new flat, then?" I say. "So at least you'll have somewhere to live by the end of next month?"
"No," says Rachel. "It turns out that the agent was wrong when he said that the application form only asked for the start date of my employment contract. It doesn't - so now I'm going to have to tell the truth: that I'll be out of a job in a month's time. And the agent thinks my application will be turned down because the landlord doesn't take tenants who are on benefit."
I don't know what to say to this. The tabloids make it sound like there are vast swathes of unscrupulous buy-to-let landlords out there, all desperately seeking the sick and unemployed as tenants, and only too happy to get their hands on Housing Benefit. Rachel's case paints a rather different picture.
I mean, let's not forget: this is a young graduate with a good degree - employed for the last year and desperate not to be unemployed again. She thinks and acts responsibly, by giving up the contract on where she lives because it's too expensive to be covered by Housing Benefit, and she knows she may have to make a short claim in between jobs.
Then she has to find hundreds of pounds for her bond and as rent in advance for the new flat, while she's still paying rent for the one she's living in, and she can't get her original deposit back in time to use it cover the one on the new flat. And to cap it all, she's made to pay £200.00 to an agent who has misinformed her about the landlord's requirements, so she may end up homeless anyway.
Given the bloody fuss that some of the usual suspects make about absolutely nothing, I'm amazed that Rachel isn't smashing the office up with frustration. But she just sits there, quietly, tearing bits of tissue between her fingers, while I try to make sense of the situation.
"So, if the worst comes to the worst, and the landlord and agent do say that you can't have the new flat because you might be on Housing Benefit for a while, you will get your £200.00 fee back, won't you?" I say.
"No," says Rachel. "It's non-refundable, so I've lost it if that happens."
I look at her in disbelief for a second, before I pull myself together and try a different tack.
"What about the Council's statutory duty to the homeless?" I say. "We could write to them on your behalf. Oh, but I suppose they say you don't fall into one of their priority groups, do they?"
"Yes," she says. "Seeing as I'm not a single parent, or anything. Or even an ex-con."
Gah. Sometimes I could bloody well scream. It's about time politicians - and probably oil barons too - started doing something to help people, especially those who want to bloody work. And preferably before I have a stroke with the rage that I feel on Rachel's behalf, which might have something to do with the fact that there but for the grace of God goes Connie, and probably me, too - if Max leaves me and I lose my job.
So now I'm going to contact everyone I can think of to see if there's anything we can do. But, if one thing's for sure, it's that Rachel won't be the only young person in this situation.
Maybe we, Joe Public, could force those buy-to-let landlords who have mortgages through RBS or one of the other bloody banks we supposedly own, to accept responsible tenants like Rachel - without making them pay all these stupid upfront fees - even if they are forced by the economic situation to be unemployed for a while. And look again at the criteria we use for those who merit housing, too.
Perhaps I should suggest to Nick Clegg that, if his Party want to earn any credibility back with the 18-30 age group, then this is one of the issues they should focus on, if the LibDems don't want to be dead in the water at the next election? Or maybe David Cameron might like to prove that he does have a clue about what life's like for ordinary people even though Andy Coulson's no longer there to tell him about it.
Come to think of it, if Andy's got nothing on at the moment, he might fancy leading the campaign...
How the hell any of them are supposed to leave home and become independent is quite beyond me - unless they come from the sort of background that Dave and Nick do, of course.
I'm sitting at my desk at lunchtime, still feeling awful about what happened in Moscow - even though it has got me off the hook about meeting Johnny tomorrow - when the intercom buzzes and a young woman called Rachel asks if she can talk to me about her housing situation.
When I go down to talk to her, it quickly becomes clear that her case is pretty complicated, so I assess whether her manner and appearance lead me to hear The Twilight Zone theme - which they don't - and then bring her back upstairs and into my office. (She isn't wearing metal-framed glasses, either.)
"I'm sorry to have to bother Mr Sinclair about this," she says, "But someone with influence really needs to understand how it is for young people, especially when more of us are unemployed than anyone else."
"Don't worry about bothering Andrew," I say. "He won't mind at all. That's what he's here for."
Honestly, sometimes I make myself feel nauseous with my blatant hypocrisy. What I should be saying is that The Boss won't even know of her existence and has bugger-all influence with anyone these days, anyway - but that wouldn't exactly be reassuring, would it?
So I carry on trying to find out about Rachel's situation - which is bloody grim, and turns out to represent yet another great big hurdle that those with permanent homes or jobs and sufficient income give no thought to whatsoever.
"So you're unemployed, then?" I say, to which Rachel shakes her head.
"Not yet, no," she says. "But my year's contract runs out in a month's time and there's no money for it to be renewed, and although I've applied for loads of jobs, and have got one interview, that isn't until a week before my existing contract ends. So even if I get the job, I'll still be unemployed for a few weeks at best."
"Oh, I do hope you will get the job," I say.
I've taken a liking to this girl - in fact, I'd employ her tomorrow - seeing as she already seems about ten times more competent than Vicky. Or The Boss, for that matter. But now I'm getting distracted, so it's back to housing. Or to the lack of it.
Rachel goes on to explain that being unemployed isn't actually her main concern. Because becoming homeless is.
"I moved to Northwick to take up my current job," she says, "so I took a lease on my flat for a year as soon as I started work. But that runs out a couple of days after my employment contract ends, and I haven't managed to find anywhere else to live yet."
"Ah, I see," I say - though when Rachel continues, it seems that actually I don't. Yet.
"I can't stay in the flat I'm living in, because it's slightly too expensive for Housing Benefit to cover the full cost of the rent while I'm still trying to get another job, but I can't find anywhere else through any of the agencies."
Rachel pauses, and corrects herself:
"Well, I have found one place that would just about be affordable," she says,"but now everything's going wrong and it looks like I'm still going to end up being homeless by the end of February."
It takes ages to get to the bottom of what is going on, partly because tears keep rolling down Rachel's face, and then she stops to apologise for crying as she scrabbles for tissues in her bag. I don't blame her, actually. If I was in her situation, I'd put my head on the desk and bawl like a baby.
It turns out that the flat Rachel's found through an agency is at a rent that is reasonable enough to be covered by Housing Benefit during the time that she's between jobs. But the trouble started when she didn't tell the agent that her current job was about to end, because she was scared that the owner of the flat wouldn't accept a tenant who might end up on benefit, for however short a period that might be.
"I asked the agent what questions they asked on the reference and credit check forms," she says. "And he said that they only want to know the start date of your current contract, and the name and address of your employer - so I thought the landlord wouldn't need to know that I might be unemployed - especially as I'm determined it won't be for long."
She looks apologetically up at me, as if she has something to be ashamed of.
"I'd probably have done the same myself," I say. "If I was in your position."
I'm not being polite either - I'd do whatever it took to avoid becoming homeless, though I'm not sure Rachel believes me. She does smile, though, and then continues with her story.
"So I decided to apply for the flat - as it was the only one I could find at such a low rent - and told the agent to start the process of checking me out to see whether I'd be approved. I had to give him £200.00 to pay for that, and then he gave me the forms to fill in and to give to my employer."
"So the £200.00 was your deposit then?" I say. "Or will you have to pay rent in advance on top of that?"
"Oh, God, yes," says Rachel. "And my bond, too. The £200.00 was only to cover the agency's fee for assessing whether I'd make a suitable tenant. I'll have to find the money for the bond and the rent in advance - before I can claim back the other bond I had to put down on my current flat. So that's one of my big problems. I only earn £13,500.00 a year anyway, so trying to find that kind of money when I first moved to Northwick was hard enough, but it's even worse having to find a second lot and more agency fees, while I'm still paying rent on the flat I'm in until the end of next month."
You can tell from the way that Rachel talks about her family that there is no chance that they can afford to help her out. She's apparently one of those bright kids who made good through working hard at school: born and brought up on a council estate, but now a graduate in one of Michael Gove's favoured academic subjects.
I bet her family thought their daughter's future would be brighter than theirs had been - until the bloody credit crunch blew that out of the water in the year she graduated. Instead of building a career, Rachel's already had one long period of unemployment since she left her Russell Group university, and she seems understandably anxious that she might be about to start another.
"I'm going on about it, aren't I?" she says. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to - but I'm just so angry that no-one in power seems to get what it's like for people in my situation, so I felt I had to come here to try and make my voice heard. I know you can't really do anything quickly enough to help me, but maybe Mr Sinclair could try and argue for changes to help other people in my situation - though I don't know what exactly. I'm having trouble thinking straight."
"Have you been approved for this new flat, then?" I say. "So at least you'll have somewhere to live by the end of next month?"
"No," says Rachel. "It turns out that the agent was wrong when he said that the application form only asked for the start date of my employment contract. It doesn't - so now I'm going to have to tell the truth: that I'll be out of a job in a month's time. And the agent thinks my application will be turned down because the landlord doesn't take tenants who are on benefit."
I don't know what to say to this. The tabloids make it sound like there are vast swathes of unscrupulous buy-to-let landlords out there, all desperately seeking the sick and unemployed as tenants, and only too happy to get their hands on Housing Benefit. Rachel's case paints a rather different picture.
I mean, let's not forget: this is a young graduate with a good degree - employed for the last year and desperate not to be unemployed again. She thinks and acts responsibly, by giving up the contract on where she lives because it's too expensive to be covered by Housing Benefit, and she knows she may have to make a short claim in between jobs.
Then she has to find hundreds of pounds for her bond and as rent in advance for the new flat, while she's still paying rent for the one she's living in, and she can't get her original deposit back in time to use it cover the one on the new flat. And to cap it all, she's made to pay £200.00 to an agent who has misinformed her about the landlord's requirements, so she may end up homeless anyway.
Given the bloody fuss that some of the usual suspects make about absolutely nothing, I'm amazed that Rachel isn't smashing the office up with frustration. But she just sits there, quietly, tearing bits of tissue between her fingers, while I try to make sense of the situation.
"So, if the worst comes to the worst, and the landlord and agent do say that you can't have the new flat because you might be on Housing Benefit for a while, you will get your £200.00 fee back, won't you?" I say.
"No," says Rachel. "It's non-refundable, so I've lost it if that happens."
I look at her in disbelief for a second, before I pull myself together and try a different tack.
"What about the Council's statutory duty to the homeless?" I say. "We could write to them on your behalf. Oh, but I suppose they say you don't fall into one of their priority groups, do they?"
"Yes," she says. "Seeing as I'm not a single parent, or anything. Or even an ex-con."
Gah. Sometimes I could bloody well scream. It's about time politicians - and probably oil barons too - started doing something to help people, especially those who want to bloody work. And preferably before I have a stroke with the rage that I feel on Rachel's behalf, which might have something to do with the fact that there but for the grace of God goes Connie, and probably me, too - if Max leaves me and I lose my job.
So now I'm going to contact everyone I can think of to see if there's anything we can do. But, if one thing's for sure, it's that Rachel won't be the only young person in this situation.
Maybe we, Joe Public, could force those buy-to-let landlords who have mortgages through RBS or one of the other bloody banks we supposedly own, to accept responsible tenants like Rachel - without making them pay all these stupid upfront fees - even if they are forced by the economic situation to be unemployed for a while. And look again at the criteria we use for those who merit housing, too.
Perhaps I should suggest to Nick Clegg that, if his Party want to earn any credibility back with the 18-30 age group, then this is one of the issues they should focus on, if the LibDems don't want to be dead in the water at the next election? Or maybe David Cameron might like to prove that he does have a clue about what life's like for ordinary people even though Andy Coulson's no longer there to tell him about it.
Come to think of it, if Andy's got nothing on at the moment, he might fancy leading the campaign...
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot. And Then Not, Not, Not.
Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.
Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.
"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."
"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."
I look at him in disbelief.
"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."
"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."
Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.
Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.
Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?
"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."
"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."
Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.
"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"
"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."
"Oh," says Greg. "Her."
It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.
Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.
"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."
"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."
I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.
Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.
"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."
"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."
I look at him in disbelief.
"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."
"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."
Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.
Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.
Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?
"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."
"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."
Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.
"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"
"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."
"Oh," says Greg. "Her."
It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.
Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.
"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."
"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."
I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Don't Call Me Stupid.
Blimey, I still can't get used to having so many young people phoning us up and wanting to talk about student funding. It's as if they've just discovered politics for the first time. I mention it to The Boss when he calls me at lunchtime.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
"It's very good news," he says. "Perhaps we can stop worrying so much about youth disengagement now."
"About tuition fees, anyway," I say. "Though I'm not so sure that they're all interested in politics in general."
"Hmm," he says. "At least I hope they've learned where being politically naive gets them: LibDems promising the earth and then discovering they can't deliver it. If so many students hadn't fallen for the buggers' pledges, we might not be in this mess now."
This is all very well, but I do wish Ed Miliband would be a bit more careful when he talks about the changes to tuition fees affecting social mobility. It's not as if we've got a glowing record on that ourselves - as one of the older constituents who phones today is at pains to point out.
"Your lot presided over a worsening in the situation," says Mr Fincham. "And as for that ludicrous 50% university target, well that's the elephant in the room, isn't it?"
I hate to say it, but he's got a point. No-one wants to talk about that when the subject of tuition fees comes up. They stay well away from how on earth such a high target could possibly be publicly-funded.
And, as for whether graduates with poor degrees from less-desirable universities stand any chance of getting well-paid jobs, or whether they've been burdening themselves with debt for no good reason, not even the "bold and brave" Nick Clegg will touch that one with a bargepole, will he?
It's very unnerving when you find yourself agreeing with a Tory on anything, but David Davis seems to be one of the few prepared to think the unthinkable. Mr Fincham must be his biggest fan.
"Davis is the only one talking any sense," he says. "You guys should pay attention to him, instead of arguing about a graduate tax and fighting amongst yourselves."
"Ah," I say. Sometimes I can see why The Boss relies on saying that so often.
"Is that all you've got to say?" (I didn't claim it always works.)
"Well, I agree with him about tuition fees hitting those students who come from the tier just above the poorest the hardest," I say. "They do, as with many other means-tested things that involve a cut-off point."
I'm hoping this will satisfy Mr Fincham, but he hasn't finished yet:
"Bloody right. And Davis has got the solution to the whole problem, hasn't he?"
"What's that, then?"
"Send fewer people to university," he says. "Not that the Labour Party will ever have the bollocks to face up to that. Obsessed with degrees at all costs, and couldn't give a monkey's about whether the courses these young 'uns take are even worth doing."
I know what Mr Fincham means. The Boss is completely hung up on degrees for all - not that he seems to think mine is worth much.
When the Labour Government first brought in tuition fees, I kept asking Andrew why, if a university education was such a passport to success, I was so badly-paid in comparison to my non-graduate friends, but he always wriggled out of it.
"Gave you the confidence to argue your case, though - didn't it, Molly?" he said.
"But seemingly not to win it," I said.
I'd ask him again now, and use Johnny as an example of what non-graduates can earn, if I wasn't still worrying about MI5 and drawing attention to my Russian connection. Johnny thinks I'm being ridiculous when I ask him not to email me at work any more, though.
"You'd need to work for someone much more important than your boss for the Russians to be interested in you," he says. "He's a backbench MP - and in opposition, for God's sake. I shouldn't think they've even heard of him in the Kremlin."
"Given his supposedly-Marxist views, they may know him better than you think," I say. "Not that he ever applies them to my pay. But, anyway, I can't take the risk. I don't know what you might try to get me to reveal in an unguarded moment."
"The only thing I'm interested in getting you to reveal is what you look and feel like naked."
"Well, I've only got your word for that," I say. "I'll set up a Hotmail account and get back to you when I've done it. Don't email me until then."
"Now you're just being stupid," he says. He doesn't even moderate the insult with a smily face, or any kisses.
I somehow refrain from pointing out that only 6% of the population made it to university when I went, and Johnny didn't. But the knowledge makes me feel a whole lot better, as long as I don't think about what he earns.
Friday, 22 October 2010
Some Less Than Astute Judgement Calls.
Well, it seems as if Nick Clegg was caught with his pants down yesterday, doesn't it? (Must be a peculiarly Liberal thing, mentioning no Irish names.)
He and Dave reminded me of how Connie and Josh used to behave when they were little, and had been caught in the act - swaying from side to side, and looking at the floor, while swearing black was white. Or that the IFS* was wrong, in Nick's case. Hardly an astute position to take, I'd have thought.
Talking of astute, Greg and I nearly wet ourselves when we hear that that's the name of the submarine that ran aground this morning. It seems Sam's not the only person who has found Skye to be a strangely hazardous environment. (I probably talked it up, what with mentioning Sam's Scottish SOS - but I'm trying not to feel too bad about that. Guilt-induced hiccups are so exhausting.)
Anyway - back to the point. Given the controversy of recent days, today's surgery isn't too bad - probably because all the appointments had already been booked before the Spending Review.
The phones were busy, though. I kept dropping mine because my hands were so bloody cold. It is no fun being skinny in cold weather, as last night's events proved only too clearly.
When I got home from work, I was freezing cold, and dying for a cup of tea, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Bad, bad move. Flames and blankets do not mix. The house still stinks of melted fleece, and so does my hair.
It's a good job The Boss seems to have taken up smoking a pipe again, as otherwise I'm sure he'd have noticed the funny smell. If he was capable of noticing anything other than Vicky's legs, that is.
I'm getting very tired of her being here now - there's hair everywhere from all that pseudo-casual flicking. Probably enough to knit myself a new blanket. It is a time of austerity, after all. Not that that should encourage Monsieur Clegg to be economical with the truth.
*IFS - Institute for Fiscal Studies, much lauded by Nick Clegg for its impartiality and accuracy during the election campaign, but now apparently incompetent.
He and Dave reminded me of how Connie and Josh used to behave when they were little, and had been caught in the act - swaying from side to side, and looking at the floor, while swearing black was white. Or that the IFS* was wrong, in Nick's case. Hardly an astute position to take, I'd have thought.
Talking of astute, Greg and I nearly wet ourselves when we hear that that's the name of the submarine that ran aground this morning. It seems Sam's not the only person who has found Skye to be a strangely hazardous environment. (I probably talked it up, what with mentioning Sam's Scottish SOS - but I'm trying not to feel too bad about that. Guilt-induced hiccups are so exhausting.)
Anyway - back to the point. Given the controversy of recent days, today's surgery isn't too bad - probably because all the appointments had already been booked before the Spending Review.
The phones were busy, though. I kept dropping mine because my hands were so bloody cold. It is no fun being skinny in cold weather, as last night's events proved only too clearly.
When I got home from work, I was freezing cold, and dying for a cup of tea, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and then went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Bad, bad move. Flames and blankets do not mix. The house still stinks of melted fleece, and so does my hair.
It's a good job The Boss seems to have taken up smoking a pipe again, as otherwise I'm sure he'd have noticed the funny smell. If he was capable of noticing anything other than Vicky's legs, that is.
I'm getting very tired of her being here now - there's hair everywhere from all that pseudo-casual flicking. Probably enough to knit myself a new blanket. It is a time of austerity, after all. Not that that should encourage Monsieur Clegg to be economical with the truth.
*IFS - Institute for Fiscal Studies, much lauded by Nick Clegg for its impartiality and accuracy during the election campaign, but now apparently incompetent.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Animal Magic & The Unseen Postcode Lottery: An Impression of a Mad Constituent.
Thank God today is fairly quiet. The usual stuff about dog poo, violence on television and rejected lovers wanting their exes reported for tax or benefit fraud. The highlight is Miss Emms, who writes in to say this:
Dear Mr Sinclair,
I am writing to you to complain about my irresponsible and inconsiderate neighbours, who live in the flat beneath mine. They are always smoking cannabis, and the smoke seeps into my flat and is causing serious problems. I have eight guinea pigs, and exposure to this drug is affecting them psychologically. I don't know where else to turn, as my Housing Officer doesn't seem to be taking any notice, and the RSPCA aren't interested either.
Can you please do something to help my poor, defenceless animals?
Yours hopefully,
Janice Emms (Miss)
Greg spends an inordinate amount of time trying to emulate a psychotic guinea pig, and then tries to persuade me to write back and ask Miss Emms for further details. I don't want to encourage the poor woman, but he says he has decided to re-train as a guinea pig whisperer if The Boss ever sacks him, or fails to get re-elected next time around. I hand him Miss Emms' letter and tell him to do whatever he thinks best.
Apart from that, there are quite a few calls about Nick Clegg's series of ill-advised comments at PMQs* yesterday, including one person who wants to get PMQs repeated, this time "with someone who is authorised to speak on behalf of the Government at the dispatch box." No-one is more pleased about the Deputy PM's cock-ups than The Boss, who prefaces every call he makes to us today with "I'm speaking in a personal capacity." This quickly ceases to be amusing, and eventually I give up bothering to even pretend to be laughing. Not that that ever bothers him. He's just like Dad.
In the afternoon, Jen phones. It's the first time I've spoken to her in weeks, as she's been busy winding up* her MP's office, as he lost his seat at the General Election. She sounds pretty low, and says that when she went to sign on for the first time, she was confronted by one of her office's usual suspects as soon as she walked into the Jobcentre. He was working there - as a security guard, for God's sake. She says he was one of their most violent and unpredictable constituents.
Jen's MP was replaced by a young guy with no experience of anything much, and she's already absolutely sick to death of receiving letters from constituents whose cases she used to handle, saying that they wrote to their new MP months ago and haven't had anything other than a holding reply since. It turns out that he hasn't even interviewed any prospective staff for his constituency office yet, and so the casework has just been piling up since May. Some of the cases are really urgent too - with pressing deadlines - and Jen says she can't help wondering if constituents would have been half so keen to elect a fresh face if they'd realised that this might mean that they had no effective advocate for the next few months. Meanwhile, there's nothing she can to do to help the people who'd come to depend on her and her old boss.
This starts me thinking about what the public expect from their MPs. It seems to me that the quality and type of service that constituents get is far more varied than they probably realise. If you went to any other agency operating in the public sector, you could at least be fairly sure that they they were all required to aim to deliver a broadly similar service - but, in the case of MPs, there really is a postcode lottery in operation. I've dealt with loads of different constituency offices over the years, whenever I've had to hand over or take up a case of a constituent who has moved area, and I've met a large number of staff at training courses too. I'm always amazed by the wide variations, both in the calibre of MPs' staff, and in what their MPs expect of them.
Some MPs' offices still seem to be staffed by their spouses, or other family members, or even their election agents - regardless of whether any of them have the necessary skills and experience to be effective as caseworkers. Other MPs provide as many highly-qualified staff as their staffing budget will allow.
There are the MPs who don't even bother to have a constituency office, but instead expect their constituents to phone them long-distance whenever they wish to raise an issue. Others won't even stoop to having a residence in their constituencies. And then there are those "caseworkers" who aren't anything of the sort, but are instead activists, illicitly being paid by the unwitting taxpayer to do party political work under cover of a non-political job title.
Even when an MP agrees to take up a constituent's case, the variations continue. How hard your MP fights on your behalf isn't only down to whether your case is perceived as valid or bonkers, but is also affected by what each MP has decided is an appropriate level of service to provide to his or her constituents. For example, if you live in X, you'll receive a copy of any letter your MP has written on your behalf, so that you can check what has been said about you and your case, and correct any errors. If you live in Y, you'll just be told that your MP has "raised the matter on your behalf." You'll have no idea whether he summarised your case accurately, or whether he even indicated that it was urgent.
Then, when the reply eventually arrives from the ministerial department, or the relevant agency, it's often quite dismissive in the first instance. If you live in Y, you'll probably just get sent a copy with a compliment slip, and that'll be the end of your MP's caseworker's efforts on your behalf. If you live in X, though, your caseworker will have taken the time to study the details of your case at the outset, will have decided what is achievable and will immediately recognise an unsatisfactory response. He or she will continue to argue your case for as long as it takes to reach a successful outcome. I am one of the X types - not that you'd know it from my pay packet - and so is Greg, even though he can be such a f*ckwit. I am quite sure that our X status has something to do with The Boss' otherwise mysterious ability to keep bucking electoral predictions and getting re-elected.
As if all that inconsistency isn't quite bad enough, there is no set frequency for surgeries, no standard time for dealing with constituents' enquiries, and the chaos in some offices has to be seen to be believed. One MP's office manager told me recently - and with apparent pride - that her office deals with all correspondence in "strict date order." She seemed to think this was praiseworthy in its egalitarian idealism, and had no idea how to respond when I asked her how on earth this affected constituents whose problems were urgent or subject to deadlines. God knows how often the worst is already happening to some constituents while she and her staff are still sorting out dog poo and psychologically-damaged guinea pigs for the others. I have a recurring vision of letters bearing the HOC* crest dropping onto the doormats of empty houses whose occupants have been deported, evicted or murdered by their dangerous spouses, all because of smug dingbats like her.
I rant about this for so long this afternoon that first Greg says that I have officially turned into a mad constituent, and then he suggests that I contact Working For An MP to suggest that they employ me to tour the country training all the new MPs and their staff. He's joking, but I think it's a pretty good idea - especially if I could go on tour during Recess.
I am so distracted by this very attractive notion that, before I know it, it's time to go home - before I've even replied to Johnny's latest email, which offers a virtual massage amongst other equally-pleasant suggestions. Having just woken up from a drool-inducing snooze on the sofa, I plan to watch Question Time, and then to take him up on his offer - if Max doesn't offer a real-world alternative, of course.
*PMQs - Prime Minister's Questions, as usual - except that this one was taken by the Deputy Prime Minister, Nick "Calamity" Clegg.
*HOC - House of Commons, also as usual.
*Winding Up - Period allowed for the business of closing down an MP's office after he or she has failed to be returned at a General Election.
Dear Mr Sinclair,
I am writing to you to complain about my irresponsible and inconsiderate neighbours, who live in the flat beneath mine. They are always smoking cannabis, and the smoke seeps into my flat and is causing serious problems. I have eight guinea pigs, and exposure to this drug is affecting them psychologically. I don't know where else to turn, as my Housing Officer doesn't seem to be taking any notice, and the RSPCA aren't interested either.
Can you please do something to help my poor, defenceless animals?
Yours hopefully,
Janice Emms (Miss)
Greg spends an inordinate amount of time trying to emulate a psychotic guinea pig, and then tries to persuade me to write back and ask Miss Emms for further details. I don't want to encourage the poor woman, but he says he has decided to re-train as a guinea pig whisperer if The Boss ever sacks him, or fails to get re-elected next time around. I hand him Miss Emms' letter and tell him to do whatever he thinks best.
Apart from that, there are quite a few calls about Nick Clegg's series of ill-advised comments at PMQs* yesterday, including one person who wants to get PMQs repeated, this time "with someone who is authorised to speak on behalf of the Government at the dispatch box." No-one is more pleased about the Deputy PM's cock-ups than The Boss, who prefaces every call he makes to us today with "I'm speaking in a personal capacity." This quickly ceases to be amusing, and eventually I give up bothering to even pretend to be laughing. Not that that ever bothers him. He's just like Dad.
In the afternoon, Jen phones. It's the first time I've spoken to her in weeks, as she's been busy winding up* her MP's office, as he lost his seat at the General Election. She sounds pretty low, and says that when she went to sign on for the first time, she was confronted by one of her office's usual suspects as soon as she walked into the Jobcentre. He was working there - as a security guard, for God's sake. She says he was one of their most violent and unpredictable constituents.
Jen's MP was replaced by a young guy with no experience of anything much, and she's already absolutely sick to death of receiving letters from constituents whose cases she used to handle, saying that they wrote to their new MP months ago and haven't had anything other than a holding reply since. It turns out that he hasn't even interviewed any prospective staff for his constituency office yet, and so the casework has just been piling up since May. Some of the cases are really urgent too - with pressing deadlines - and Jen says she can't help wondering if constituents would have been half so keen to elect a fresh face if they'd realised that this might mean that they had no effective advocate for the next few months. Meanwhile, there's nothing she can to do to help the people who'd come to depend on her and her old boss.
This starts me thinking about what the public expect from their MPs. It seems to me that the quality and type of service that constituents get is far more varied than they probably realise. If you went to any other agency operating in the public sector, you could at least be fairly sure that they they were all required to aim to deliver a broadly similar service - but, in the case of MPs, there really is a postcode lottery in operation. I've dealt with loads of different constituency offices over the years, whenever I've had to hand over or take up a case of a constituent who has moved area, and I've met a large number of staff at training courses too. I'm always amazed by the wide variations, both in the calibre of MPs' staff, and in what their MPs expect of them.
Some MPs' offices still seem to be staffed by their spouses, or other family members, or even their election agents - regardless of whether any of them have the necessary skills and experience to be effective as caseworkers. Other MPs provide as many highly-qualified staff as their staffing budget will allow.
There are the MPs who don't even bother to have a constituency office, but instead expect their constituents to phone them long-distance whenever they wish to raise an issue. Others won't even stoop to having a residence in their constituencies. And then there are those "caseworkers" who aren't anything of the sort, but are instead activists, illicitly being paid by the unwitting taxpayer to do party political work under cover of a non-political job title.
Even when an MP agrees to take up a constituent's case, the variations continue. How hard your MP fights on your behalf isn't only down to whether your case is perceived as valid or bonkers, but is also affected by what each MP has decided is an appropriate level of service to provide to his or her constituents. For example, if you live in X, you'll receive a copy of any letter your MP has written on your behalf, so that you can check what has been said about you and your case, and correct any errors. If you live in Y, you'll just be told that your MP has "raised the matter on your behalf." You'll have no idea whether he summarised your case accurately, or whether he even indicated that it was urgent.
Then, when the reply eventually arrives from the ministerial department, or the relevant agency, it's often quite dismissive in the first instance. If you live in Y, you'll probably just get sent a copy with a compliment slip, and that'll be the end of your MP's caseworker's efforts on your behalf. If you live in X, though, your caseworker will have taken the time to study the details of your case at the outset, will have decided what is achievable and will immediately recognise an unsatisfactory response. He or she will continue to argue your case for as long as it takes to reach a successful outcome. I am one of the X types - not that you'd know it from my pay packet - and so is Greg, even though he can be such a f*ckwit. I am quite sure that our X status has something to do with The Boss' otherwise mysterious ability to keep bucking electoral predictions and getting re-elected.
As if all that inconsistency isn't quite bad enough, there is no set frequency for surgeries, no standard time for dealing with constituents' enquiries, and the chaos in some offices has to be seen to be believed. One MP's office manager told me recently - and with apparent pride - that her office deals with all correspondence in "strict date order." She seemed to think this was praiseworthy in its egalitarian idealism, and had no idea how to respond when I asked her how on earth this affected constituents whose problems were urgent or subject to deadlines. God knows how often the worst is already happening to some constituents while she and her staff are still sorting out dog poo and psychologically-damaged guinea pigs for the others. I have a recurring vision of letters bearing the HOC* crest dropping onto the doormats of empty houses whose occupants have been deported, evicted or murdered by their dangerous spouses, all because of smug dingbats like her.
I rant about this for so long this afternoon that first Greg says that I have officially turned into a mad constituent, and then he suggests that I contact Working For An MP to suggest that they employ me to tour the country training all the new MPs and their staff. He's joking, but I think it's a pretty good idea - especially if I could go on tour during Recess.
I am so distracted by this very attractive notion that, before I know it, it's time to go home - before I've even replied to Johnny's latest email, which offers a virtual massage amongst other equally-pleasant suggestions. Having just woken up from a drool-inducing snooze on the sofa, I plan to watch Question Time, and then to take him up on his offer - if Max doesn't offer a real-world alternative, of course.
*PMQs - Prime Minister's Questions, as usual - except that this one was taken by the Deputy Prime Minister, Nick "Calamity" Clegg.
*HOC - House of Commons, also as usual.
*Winding Up - Period allowed for the business of closing down an MP's office after he or she has failed to be returned at a General Election.
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