Where did the weekend go - apart from travelling to and from Dorset, and fending off the paternal poison merchant? I'm so knackered when I wake up that I feel as if I haven't had any time off at all.
"Christ," says Greg, when I walk into the office. "You look like Night of the Living Dead."
"I know," I say. "Though there's no need to rub it in, just because you look so bright and bushy-tailed. What on earth is wrong with you?"
"I'm in love," he says. "And off the booze. Need all my wits about me when I'm with Jess if I'm to remember not to swear."
Greg's reformation is obviously part-time at best - seeing as he spends the whole morning swearing like a trooper. I can't say I blame him, as the usual suspects are out in force, accompanied by every single member of the difficult question brigade.
The phones just will not stop ringing, and by mid-afternoon both Greg and I are losing the plot - one of us slightly more than the other. Being teetotal might be lowering Greg's blood-alcohol levels, but it's doing the opposite in terms of his tolerance for being put on the spot.
"No, I'm afraid I don't know why the government is intervening in Libya while ignoring events in Yemen and Bahrain," he says, while wrapping the telephone cord several times around his neck, and then sliding dramatically on to the floor. "Nor why we've left Robert Mugabe in charge of Zimbabwe."
I'm facing a similarly tricky set of questions myself, except that Mrs Cookson - the constituent that I'm speaking to - adds a further ingredient to the mix.
"We stood by and allowed a genocide to take place in Rwanda," she says. "Our bloody foreign policy has everything to do with money and oil, and nothing whatsoever to do with what is right. No wonder Britain's reputation is being destroyed."
I have no idea what to say to any of this, given that my own musings on the subject seem to give rise to increasingly cynical answers, so I make an indeterminate noise in reply - which doesn't impress Mrs Cookson at all.
"Do you know how many day centres could be saved for the cost of a Tomahawk missile?" she says. God knows why, seeing as she obviously knows the answer already - unlike me, I'm embarrassed to say.
There's nothing for it but to let her answer her own question - which satisfies constituents more often than you'd expect. Then she rings off, having first been promised that I'll make all her views known to Liam Fox - which I plan to do in mind-numbingly microscopic detail.
It's about time Ministers had a taste of how tiring it is to be asked tricky questions, especially when you're not sure what your responses should be.
"Stop yawning, Molly," says Greg, unwrapping a Twix. "You'll set me off as well, if you're not careful. I'm bloody knackered after all that."
I say nothing, as I've got my hand over my mouth. At least I'm trying to comply.
Greg gives me a suspicious look, and then he continues:
"Honestly, sometimes I wonder if constituents realise that we aren't even in power now. I feel I'm being expected to defend Coalition policies today - don't you?"
"Yes," I say. "Though I suppose there is some pleasure to be had from the fact that we're both making such a bloody awful job of doing so."
"Hmm," he says, taking a large bite of chocolate, and then staring up at the ceiling while chewing thoughtfully. "There is always that."
Sometimes it's easy to forget that there is an upside to being in opposition, in that we're no longer responsible for Government policy. In theory, we could get away with providing no more than a sympathetic ear to complaints. Which seems to be all that Max wants from me, when I finally get home from work.
He's sitting at the dining room table, holding a piece of paper in his hand, and looking almost as tired as I do. This is really saying something.
"What's that?" I say. "Is it a letter from work?"
"Yes, he says. "Confirming in writing that I didn't get the job - my job."
He rubs his eyes, and then pinches the bridge of his nose, while he waits for me to read the HR Director's justification for the decision to choose someone else for the post.
The phrases: "more appropriate experience" and "transferable skills" are repeated several times, and "necessary" is mis-spelled more than once. "Sincerely" seems to have posed the greatest challenge.
"Bloody hell." I say. "Even The Boss can write a more literate letter than that. So do you know the person who actually got your job?"
Max nods, but that's his only response. Honestly, talk about getting blood out of a stone.
"Well, who is it, then?" I say. "And was he or she really a better candidate than you?"
"He's a young guy, called Stuart," says Max. "Though you'll never guess what his supposedly-relevant experience is in."
I shouldn't think I will - given that I could write what I know about high-end furniture, or family-run department stores, on the back of my hand. Probably with some space to spare. Max is the expert, after all. Or was, until he lost his job.
"No idea," I say. "Was he a furniture-maker, like you used to be?"
"No," says Max."He wasn't. He did three months at Leather Village or whatever it used to be called, and then he got sacked. And, before that, he spent five years selling used cars."
"Cars?" I say. "What the hell have cars got to do with furniture?"
"About as much as Leather Village has, I should think." Max's expression almost says it all. "My company's obviously decided to make a quick buck at all costs, and sod the long-term consequences to their reputation. Mary Portas would have a fit."
"She's not the only one," I say. "Constituents have been complaining about much the same thing to me all day, though admittedly they were referring to Britain and oil."
Showing posts with label Redundancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Redundancy. Show all posts
Monday, 21 March 2011
Friday, 18 March 2011
The Harsh Realities Of Life, And A Complete Inability To Do Anything Useful About Them In The Absence Of Criminal Connections.
Max sounds awful when he wakes up this morning, and he takes so long getting up that I'm ready to leave before he's even dressed.
"Aren't you going in to work today?" I say.
"Don't know if I can be bloody bothered," he says. "Seeing as my skills are irrelevant. They'd probably sell more if I wasn't there, and I doubt the customers would even notice."
"Oh, I should think Mrs Bloom would," I say - before I remember that I'm not actually sure if she even exists, or whether she's just Max's cover story for the affair he may or may not be having with Annoying Ellen. Or with the homicidal faun. Life can be so confusing sometimes.
I'm not the only one struggling with the harsh realities of life here in Northwick, though - which I know are as nothing compared to the situation in Japan, but I'm trying to focus on stuff that I can actually do something about. Given that the only alternative seems to be 24-hour news-induced sleep deprivation, an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and a lower than usual tolerance for fuckwittage.
Not that I'm implying that the latter's true of poor old Mr Edmonds' behaviour - though he certainly thinks he's been an idiot, and isn't at all his usual self when he arrives for his surgery appointment. His eyes are reddened and he looks much frailer than the last time we saw him, despite the fact that he has worn a suit for the occasion. It's a bit shiny at the elbows and knees, and hangs loose upon his frame.
"I can't believe it," he says, as soon as he enters the room. "I just can't believe it."
"Please sit down," I say, helping him in to a chair. "And then you can tell us what the problem is."
"I just hope Mr Sinclair can help me," he says. "Seeing as nobody else will. They just say there's no fool like an old fool - and they might be right, an' all."
Then he makes a sound that is halfway between a hiccup and a sob, which he tries to mask by burying his face in a large white handkerchief.
"Take your time," says The Boss, while looking surreptitiously at his watch.
He hates it when constituents cry. So do I, but it's a hazard of the job, isn't it? Especially when some people view their MP as a last resort, unlike the usual bloody suspects who'd think nothing of calling us for advice on how to brush their teeth. Or something even less savoury.
I glare at Andrew, who pulls his sleeve back down and resigns himself to waiting it out until, eventually, Mr E blows his nose and marshals his thoughts.
"The Police don't believe me," he says. "Even though they must know that Darren's a wrong 'un, seeing as everybody did. Apart from me, apparently. My life savings - and they're all gone."
He goes on to explain that he still hasn't made any real friends on the estate to which he moved when his wife died a few years ago.
"You know what people are like these days," he says. "They sometimes say hello when they pass by my house, but they're all busy with their own lives, aren't they? And I'm a lot older than most of them."
This loneliness turns out to have played right into the hands of the loathsome Darren. He owns a small garage at the edge of the estate, and was one of the few people to do more than pass the time of day with Mr E - who was a mechanic in his youth, and says that he still loves cars and the smell of oil.
"We'd just chat about motors, and sometimes he'd say, 'Want a cuppa, Grandpa?' and -"
Mr Edmonds seems to lose his thread for a minute, and then he squares his shoulders and looks straight at me.
"It sounds stupid, now," he says. "But it was nice, you know, to have a friend. Or that's what I thought he was."
It turns out that Darren just happened to discover that Mr Edmonds had withdrawn all his money from the bank after the run on Northern Rock. And then - like the considerate friend he was - he decided to "advise" Mr E of the risks, though scared the shit out of him might be a better description.
"I couldn't sleep a wink after he warned me what would happen if word got around and someone broke in while I was in bed." says Mr E.
He looks so apologetic, that it's as if he's expecting us to tell him off. I'm certainly not going to, but I glance over at Andrew, just to make sure that he isn't about to give a crime prevention lecture. (He hasn't been the same since he started attending those Neighbourhood Policing events.)
Luckily, and although he's fidgeting in his seat, for once he senses when not to hold forth, and gestures for me to speak instead.
"So what did this Darren suggest you do about it?" I say, though I've got a horrible feeling I already know.
"He said he had a safe in the garage, and that my money would be much more secure in there. 'I'm here every day, or at the end of the phone,' he said. 'So you can get at it whenever you want to. I probably work longer hours than the banks!'"
Our Darren's obviously not stupid, is he? Even I'd have been tempted by that sales pitch - especially if I thought I could get a cup of tea and a friendly chat whenever I had to withdraw some cash - instead of a snotty text from the bank like the one that arrived this morning. God knows how Max and I are going to manage to clear the accidental overdraft now. We'll probably be as broke as Mr E by the end of the month, once they add those bloody awful daily charges.
But this isn't time to be thinking about me. I'm supposed to be helping someone else.
"So what happened then?" I say. "Did you give Darren the money to look after for you?"
"Yes," says Mr E. "And it was all fine, until last week when I wanted to withdraw some to pay the last instalment of my Council Tax."
Now he's crying again, but he's determined not to stop talking this time - not until he's told us everything.
"So I walked round to the garage, and asked Darren if I could get some of my money out of the safe," he says. "And he just looked at me like he didn't know me from Adam and said, "Sorry, mate - do I know you? And what money are you talking about?'"
Honestly, aren't some people shits? The Boss and I are both so livid about the whole thing that, after Mr Edmonds leaves - having been promised that I'll speak to the Police as soon as today's surgery has ended - we both take a couple of large swigs from a bottle of Igor's vodka that has mysteriously found its way into Andrew's briefcase. And then we take a couple more.
"Christ," I say. "What kind of society are we turning into?"
"I don't know," says Andrew. "But the Japanese put us to shame, don't they? There they are - short of food, water, and with death and destruction on every side - and yet they wait in line, treat each other with courtesy and barely complain. And what have we got? The Darrens of this bloody world, taking advantage of a lonely old man."
"Yes," I say. "Who really only wanted a friend."
I might be able to see that clearly but, when I start making enquiries on Mr Edmond's behalf, it turns out that it's not just Japan that I'm powerless to help. He didn't get a receipt from Darren, and so there's no proof that a crime was even committed, and nothing that the Police can do. Not while Darren continues to claim that Mr E is senile, and that there never was any agreement to "look after" his money.
"Shame none of us know a good forger," says The Boss. "Then we could create a receipt. Set a thief to catch a thief."
Which sounds much worse in the light of the expenses scandal than it might otherwise have done.
"Aren't you going in to work today?" I say.
"Don't know if I can be bloody bothered," he says. "Seeing as my skills are irrelevant. They'd probably sell more if I wasn't there, and I doubt the customers would even notice."
"Oh, I should think Mrs Bloom would," I say - before I remember that I'm not actually sure if she even exists, or whether she's just Max's cover story for the affair he may or may not be having with Annoying Ellen. Or with the homicidal faun. Life can be so confusing sometimes.
I'm not the only one struggling with the harsh realities of life here in Northwick, though - which I know are as nothing compared to the situation in Japan, but I'm trying to focus on stuff that I can actually do something about. Given that the only alternative seems to be 24-hour news-induced sleep deprivation, an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and a lower than usual tolerance for fuckwittage.
Not that I'm implying that the latter's true of poor old Mr Edmonds' behaviour - though he certainly thinks he's been an idiot, and isn't at all his usual self when he arrives for his surgery appointment. His eyes are reddened and he looks much frailer than the last time we saw him, despite the fact that he has worn a suit for the occasion. It's a bit shiny at the elbows and knees, and hangs loose upon his frame.
"I can't believe it," he says, as soon as he enters the room. "I just can't believe it."
"Please sit down," I say, helping him in to a chair. "And then you can tell us what the problem is."
"I just hope Mr Sinclair can help me," he says. "Seeing as nobody else will. They just say there's no fool like an old fool - and they might be right, an' all."
Then he makes a sound that is halfway between a hiccup and a sob, which he tries to mask by burying his face in a large white handkerchief.
"Take your time," says The Boss, while looking surreptitiously at his watch.
He hates it when constituents cry. So do I, but it's a hazard of the job, isn't it? Especially when some people view their MP as a last resort, unlike the usual bloody suspects who'd think nothing of calling us for advice on how to brush their teeth. Or something even less savoury.
I glare at Andrew, who pulls his sleeve back down and resigns himself to waiting it out until, eventually, Mr E blows his nose and marshals his thoughts.
"The Police don't believe me," he says. "Even though they must know that Darren's a wrong 'un, seeing as everybody did. Apart from me, apparently. My life savings - and they're all gone."
He goes on to explain that he still hasn't made any real friends on the estate to which he moved when his wife died a few years ago.
"You know what people are like these days," he says. "They sometimes say hello when they pass by my house, but they're all busy with their own lives, aren't they? And I'm a lot older than most of them."
This loneliness turns out to have played right into the hands of the loathsome Darren. He owns a small garage at the edge of the estate, and was one of the few people to do more than pass the time of day with Mr E - who was a mechanic in his youth, and says that he still loves cars and the smell of oil.
"We'd just chat about motors, and sometimes he'd say, 'Want a cuppa, Grandpa?' and -"
Mr Edmonds seems to lose his thread for a minute, and then he squares his shoulders and looks straight at me.
"It sounds stupid, now," he says. "But it was nice, you know, to have a friend. Or that's what I thought he was."
It turns out that Darren just happened to discover that Mr Edmonds had withdrawn all his money from the bank after the run on Northern Rock. And then - like the considerate friend he was - he decided to "advise" Mr E of the risks, though scared the shit out of him might be a better description.
"I couldn't sleep a wink after he warned me what would happen if word got around and someone broke in while I was in bed." says Mr E.
He looks so apologetic, that it's as if he's expecting us to tell him off. I'm certainly not going to, but I glance over at Andrew, just to make sure that he isn't about to give a crime prevention lecture. (He hasn't been the same since he started attending those Neighbourhood Policing events.)
Luckily, and although he's fidgeting in his seat, for once he senses when not to hold forth, and gestures for me to speak instead.
"So what did this Darren suggest you do about it?" I say, though I've got a horrible feeling I already know.
"He said he had a safe in the garage, and that my money would be much more secure in there. 'I'm here every day, or at the end of the phone,' he said. 'So you can get at it whenever you want to. I probably work longer hours than the banks!'"
Our Darren's obviously not stupid, is he? Even I'd have been tempted by that sales pitch - especially if I thought I could get a cup of tea and a friendly chat whenever I had to withdraw some cash - instead of a snotty text from the bank like the one that arrived this morning. God knows how Max and I are going to manage to clear the accidental overdraft now. We'll probably be as broke as Mr E by the end of the month, once they add those bloody awful daily charges.
But this isn't time to be thinking about me. I'm supposed to be helping someone else.
"So what happened then?" I say. "Did you give Darren the money to look after for you?"
"Yes," says Mr E. "And it was all fine, until last week when I wanted to withdraw some to pay the last instalment of my Council Tax."
Now he's crying again, but he's determined not to stop talking this time - not until he's told us everything.
"So I walked round to the garage, and asked Darren if I could get some of my money out of the safe," he says. "And he just looked at me like he didn't know me from Adam and said, "Sorry, mate - do I know you? And what money are you talking about?'"
Honestly, aren't some people shits? The Boss and I are both so livid about the whole thing that, after Mr Edmonds leaves - having been promised that I'll speak to the Police as soon as today's surgery has ended - we both take a couple of large swigs from a bottle of Igor's vodka that has mysteriously found its way into Andrew's briefcase. And then we take a couple more.
"Christ," I say. "What kind of society are we turning into?"
"I don't know," says Andrew. "But the Japanese put us to shame, don't they? There they are - short of food, water, and with death and destruction on every side - and yet they wait in line, treat each other with courtesy and barely complain. And what have we got? The Darrens of this bloody world, taking advantage of a lonely old man."
"Yes," I say. "Who really only wanted a friend."
I might be able to see that clearly but, when I start making enquiries on Mr Edmond's behalf, it turns out that it's not just Japan that I'm powerless to help. He didn't get a receipt from Darren, and so there's no proof that a crime was even committed, and nothing that the Police can do. Not while Darren continues to claim that Mr E is senile, and that there never was any agreement to "look after" his money.
"Shame none of us know a good forger," says The Boss. "Then we could create a receipt. Set a thief to catch a thief."
Which sounds much worse in the light of the expenses scandal than it might otherwise have done.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
The Mafia Moll, Or My Fair Lady: As You've Never Seen Her Before.
Is paranoia catching? I'm becoming as bad as the usual suspects, and I bet it's all their fault. Oh, and Johnny's, of course.
"Where've you been for the last few days?" he says in his first email of the day. "I've missed you."
"Riddled with insomnia due to 24-hour news, and being poisoned by a homicidal faun," I say. "I nearly died from that one."
"Don't be silly," says Johnny, sounding just like Max. "If anyone's out to poison you, it'll be you-know-who, because of the company you keep. And I told you not to keep taking the name of the *M-People in vain."
Talk about a lack of sympathy. I bet Shakespeare didn't behave like that to the object of his affection. Even if she did have unavoidable links to a Russian refugee with a fondness for peculiar hats.
"Romance is dead," I say to Johnny, apropos of nothing in particular.
"I know," he says. "In marriage, anyway. Not between us, though, surely?"
"I don't know that virtual sex in between your endless conference calls really counts as romance," I say.
I add a miserable *emoticon to that sentence, for effect. The young don't have an exclusive right to EMO statements, after all. We're all entitled to the odd moment of self-pity, no matter what Mum might say.
"It's pretty romantic to be besotted with each other even when we never see each other, though, isn't it?"
I don't think Johnny's being sarcastic, but you can never be too careful, so I have no idea of the correct response to this. It's probably safer to send another emoticon, just in case - though it takes me ages to decide between a smily face or a wink. In the end, I opt for both.
The more I think about it, the less I can work out why romance would have died between Johnny and his wife - if it really has. It's not as if they have money worries, annoying teenage children, or a non-existent social life, is it? Not like me and Max. And I bet they don't have a sex-mad parent staying with them either.
Just imagine Max coming home and saying,
"Darling, shall we go to the embassy ball tonight? I have a meeting with the Minister for Mafia, but the au pair can put the children to bed while you have a leisurely bath, and then I'll send the car to pick you up."
I'd feel like Eliza Doolittle if that happened to me - but gritty realism's more my scene. This evening ends up turning into a *kitchen sink drama, though I'm not sure if Max still qualifies as an angry young man. Not at his age - which seems to be the root of the problem.
When he arrives home from work, he kicks the front door shut so hard that a lump of plaster falls from the ceiling onto my head.
"Fuck it," he says. "Fuck the fucking lot of them."
Josh and I look at each other but keep quiet, and even Dad works out that now is probably not the time to turn the volume up, though I can tell he's itching to do just that. God knows what he's watching, though at least it isn't News 24.
Max says, "Fuck it," again, and then sits down on the sofa, and buries his head in his hands.
"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "Are you okay?"
"No," he says. "I didn't get the job. My job, effectively, or the one I've been doing for the last fifteen years, anyway. They felt other people's skills were more relevant, though their experience damn well wasn't."
Bloody hell. I tell you what, if I really had Mafia connections, a certain boss of a little-known furniture retail chain would be being bundled into the boot of a car right this minute. After being force-fed twenty-seven organic Scotch eggs and watching rolling news for a week without sleep.
*M-People - Johnny's code word for the Mafia, but in reality, a band from the 1990s, whose song, Moving On Up, is pretty much the polar opposite of what I've spent my life doing.
*Emoticon. A sad one; a happy one, and a winking one. The latter reminds me of someone annoying, but I can't think who.
*Kitchen Sink Drama - my life, summed up.
"Where've you been for the last few days?" he says in his first email of the day. "I've missed you."
"Riddled with insomnia due to 24-hour news, and being poisoned by a homicidal faun," I say. "I nearly died from that one."
"Don't be silly," says Johnny, sounding just like Max. "If anyone's out to poison you, it'll be you-know-who, because of the company you keep. And I told you not to keep taking the name of the *M-People in vain."
Talk about a lack of sympathy. I bet Shakespeare didn't behave like that to the object of his affection. Even if she did have unavoidable links to a Russian refugee with a fondness for peculiar hats.
"Romance is dead," I say to Johnny, apropos of nothing in particular.
"I know," he says. "In marriage, anyway. Not between us, though, surely?"
"I don't know that virtual sex in between your endless conference calls really counts as romance," I say.
I add a miserable *emoticon to that sentence, for effect. The young don't have an exclusive right to EMO statements, after all. We're all entitled to the odd moment of self-pity, no matter what Mum might say.
"It's pretty romantic to be besotted with each other even when we never see each other, though, isn't it?"
I don't think Johnny's being sarcastic, but you can never be too careful, so I have no idea of the correct response to this. It's probably safer to send another emoticon, just in case - though it takes me ages to decide between a smily face or a wink. In the end, I opt for both.
The more I think about it, the less I can work out why romance would have died between Johnny and his wife - if it really has. It's not as if they have money worries, annoying teenage children, or a non-existent social life, is it? Not like me and Max. And I bet they don't have a sex-mad parent staying with them either.
Just imagine Max coming home and saying,
"Darling, shall we go to the embassy ball tonight? I have a meeting with the Minister for Mafia, but the au pair can put the children to bed while you have a leisurely bath, and then I'll send the car to pick you up."
I'd feel like Eliza Doolittle if that happened to me - but gritty realism's more my scene. This evening ends up turning into a *kitchen sink drama, though I'm not sure if Max still qualifies as an angry young man. Not at his age - which seems to be the root of the problem.
When he arrives home from work, he kicks the front door shut so hard that a lump of plaster falls from the ceiling onto my head.
"Fuck it," he says. "Fuck the fucking lot of them."
Josh and I look at each other but keep quiet, and even Dad works out that now is probably not the time to turn the volume up, though I can tell he's itching to do just that. God knows what he's watching, though at least it isn't News 24.
Max says, "Fuck it," again, and then sits down on the sofa, and buries his head in his hands.
"What on earth's the matter?" I say. "Are you okay?"
"No," he says. "I didn't get the job. My job, effectively, or the one I've been doing for the last fifteen years, anyway. They felt other people's skills were more relevant, though their experience damn well wasn't."
Bloody hell. I tell you what, if I really had Mafia connections, a certain boss of a little-known furniture retail chain would be being bundled into the boot of a car right this minute. After being force-fed twenty-seven organic Scotch eggs and watching rolling news for a week without sleep.
*M-People - Johnny's code word for the Mafia, but in reality, a band from the 1990s, whose song, Moving On Up, is pretty much the polar opposite of what I've spent my life doing.
*Emoticon. A sad one; a happy one, and a winking one. The latter reminds me of someone annoying, but I can't think who.
*Kitchen Sink Drama - my life, summed up.
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.
Friday, 30 July 2010
A Depressing Tale of the Shambles that is Housing Benefit.
Today's surgery seems to be all about Housing Benefit. The whole system is a shambles. For every Somali family living in million-pound luxury in the West End, there are God knows how many other people struggling to keep even the most modest roof over their heads.
Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.
Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.
Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.
The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.
I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.
Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.
My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.
All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?
Today we have two such enquiries. The first is from Mr & Mrs Farrow, a nice couple in their late fifties. Mrs Farrow is chronically sick and can't work, and Mr Farrow recently got made redundant. They have been forced to claim Housing Benefit for their two-bedroomed council bungalow. So what, you might say - their housing costs are being covered, aren't they? Well, yes, except that the Farrow children are grown up and have moved away. So the Council have decided that they are under-occupying their house, and will only pay a proportion of their rent as Housing Benefit.
Mr & Mrs Farrow have no income with which to make up the shortfall and with her health problems and his age and lack of IT skills, I can't see this being resolved by either of them finding employment any time soon. They are terrified that they will fall into arrears with their rent, and end up being evicted. They've been told that they could always seek an exchange to a one-bedroomed house - but they haven't got the money to pay removal expenses, even if they could find someone to swap with.
Not only that, but they've already had to bail out one of their sons by allowing him to move back home on more than one occasion, and this wouldn't even have been posible had they not had the other bedroom. There seems to be no option but for them to try to "find" the additional rent from Mr Farrow's Jobseeeker's Allowance. The Boss agrees to write to the Council and beg them to use their discretion, but I'm not optimistic about the result.
The business about the Farrow's son is thrown into sharp relief later on in surgery, when Gemma McKeown comes in to see The Boss. It's unusual for someone as young as Gemma to even visit their MP - she's only twenty-three, but has been self-supporting for some five years after a breakdown in relations with her family. She's also recently lost her job, and it looks as if she will soon be homeless too.
I am shocked to hear that young people under the age of 25 are only entitled to approximately 50% of the Housing Benefit payable to people over that age. How stupid is that? Their landlords don't charge them less just because they are younger. The amount of Housing Benefit Gemma receives isn't even enough to cover the cost of her room in a shared house in one of Northwick's grottiest areas, and homelessness is a very real threat if something isn't done. She doesn't have parents like Mr & Mrs Farrow who will take her in.
Her chances of employment don't seem much better than the Farrows' either, as the only jobs she's been qualified to apply for so far have all been on contracts which guarantee only between zero and four hours a week. Nothing like enough hours to reassure her that she will be able to earn enough to pay her rent, even if she succeeds in getting one of the jobs. God knows what we can do to help her, but I'm going to try bloody hard to think of something.
My head hurts by the end of surgery, and even Andrew is uncharacteristically quiet. I think it's dawned on him that he can't blame this Housing Benefit fiasco on the coalition, and he was even sensitive enough - for once - to avoid adding to the constituents' misery by scare-mongering as to what the ConDems' proposed changes to Housing Benefit might do to make matters worse.
All I can think of is that Connie and Josh could find themselves in Gemma's situation, if Max and I were ever to split up, and become unable to provide a roof over their heads in an emergency. I am going to turn Johnny down. Any transient pleasure he might be able to provide would be as nothing compared to how shitty I would feel if I contributed to making my children homeless. I might be capable of low cunning in the face of the long Recess, but I am fundamentally a good person. At least, I hope I am. Who knows - I might even still be a socialist at heart?
Monday, 19 July 2010
Not Exactly A Good Start To The Week
Today I have to strip naked in a multi-storey car park. Then I am hosed down by some guy wearing head to toe plastic. For God's sake, this is all getting too much. It all starts before the new intern has even arrived for her first day on the job.
I am opening an envelope when white powder starts flying everywhere. Greg and I just sit and look at each other for what seems like five minutes, then he yells, "Start panicking!" and runs around pointlessly for a bit, while I try to work out who we should call for help. First a police officer turns up, and then the decontamination unit arrives, along with three fire engines and two ambulances. They evacuate everyone, including all those who work in the neighbouring offices. We're going to be even more popular with them than we already were after the Mr Humphries debacle, thanks to this.
All the officials are wearing full decontamination suits and breathing apparatus, and they set up some sort of bouncy castle-type decontamination thing in the car park. Greg and I (as well as the hapless police officer) are ordered to strip and change into white suits like those in CSI. So not a good look. Then we're scrubbed down with Fairy liquid, which does nothing for my new haircut, before being taken to the hospital for check-ups.
After we've seen the doctors, we're discharged, having been prescribed medication to take in case the powder was anthrax. Even the journey home is embarrassing as God knows when we'll get our clothes back. I'm particularly cross that I was wearing my favourite pair of shoes at the time. I have to go home in a plastic suit and a pair of fireman's trainers, which must be a size nine at least.
Meanwhile the office is to stay closed until the exact nature of the powder is established, and the Police are posting officers there overnight. Bloody marvellous. The usual suspects are going to be leaving so many abusive messages about us not answering their calls that the answer-phone will probably explode.
So now we just have to wait for Porton Down to tell us whether and when we're going to die horrible deaths. Max is furious. He phones The Boss in Westminster, and shouts at him about how he is failing to protect his staff. Andrew goes on about being a "man of the people" and "accessibility" and eventually, Max gets so cross that he has to do my trick of pretending that they've been cut off, as otherwise he says he might have resigned on my behalf, and then where would we be? (Max is not at all himself since his company started talking about redundancies.)
I am too discomfited to do anything for the rest of the day, except sit at home and stew about why The Boss won't let us have all our constituency mail sent to the House of Commons in the first instance, like so many other MPs do. At least then the bloody letters would be put through their scanners before I am expected to open the damned things. The Boss leads such a charmed life - this sort of thing never seems to occur when he's here. If it did, maybe he'd learn his lesson, instead of always claiming that we exaggerate what happens, or blaming us for somehow causing the events.
I'm almost as upset that Andrew has escaped again, as I am by the public humiliation, though that was awful - I didn't even have my new underwear on, as I've been saving it just in case I ever do go on a date with Johnny. Mind you, I wasn't as embarrassed as Greg, who kept muttering, "Bit of weight left over from Christmas. Just joined a gym," for the benefit of the onlookers. I suppose now I'd better check whether my life assurance covers me for acts of terrorism, especially if Max is going to lose his job.
I am opening an envelope when white powder starts flying everywhere. Greg and I just sit and look at each other for what seems like five minutes, then he yells, "Start panicking!" and runs around pointlessly for a bit, while I try to work out who we should call for help. First a police officer turns up, and then the decontamination unit arrives, along with three fire engines and two ambulances. They evacuate everyone, including all those who work in the neighbouring offices. We're going to be even more popular with them than we already were after the Mr Humphries debacle, thanks to this.
All the officials are wearing full decontamination suits and breathing apparatus, and they set up some sort of bouncy castle-type decontamination thing in the car park. Greg and I (as well as the hapless police officer) are ordered to strip and change into white suits like those in CSI. So not a good look. Then we're scrubbed down with Fairy liquid, which does nothing for my new haircut, before being taken to the hospital for check-ups.
After we've seen the doctors, we're discharged, having been prescribed medication to take in case the powder was anthrax. Even the journey home is embarrassing as God knows when we'll get our clothes back. I'm particularly cross that I was wearing my favourite pair of shoes at the time. I have to go home in a plastic suit and a pair of fireman's trainers, which must be a size nine at least.
Meanwhile the office is to stay closed until the exact nature of the powder is established, and the Police are posting officers there overnight. Bloody marvellous. The usual suspects are going to be leaving so many abusive messages about us not answering their calls that the answer-phone will probably explode.
So now we just have to wait for Porton Down to tell us whether and when we're going to die horrible deaths. Max is furious. He phones The Boss in Westminster, and shouts at him about how he is failing to protect his staff. Andrew goes on about being a "man of the people" and "accessibility" and eventually, Max gets so cross that he has to do my trick of pretending that they've been cut off, as otherwise he says he might have resigned on my behalf, and then where would we be? (Max is not at all himself since his company started talking about redundancies.)
I am too discomfited to do anything for the rest of the day, except sit at home and stew about why The Boss won't let us have all our constituency mail sent to the House of Commons in the first instance, like so many other MPs do. At least then the bloody letters would be put through their scanners before I am expected to open the damned things. The Boss leads such a charmed life - this sort of thing never seems to occur when he's here. If it did, maybe he'd learn his lesson, instead of always claiming that we exaggerate what happens, or blaming us for somehow causing the events.
I'm almost as upset that Andrew has escaped again, as I am by the public humiliation, though that was awful - I didn't even have my new underwear on, as I've been saving it just in case I ever do go on a date with Johnny. Mind you, I wasn't as embarrassed as Greg, who kept muttering, "Bit of weight left over from Christmas. Just joined a gym," for the benefit of the onlookers. I suppose now I'd better check whether my life assurance covers me for acts of terrorism, especially if Max is going to lose his job.
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