Posh?

On the 78 I sit next to a pearly-haired pensioner who tells me: ‘I worked from the age of 14. I think it would do some people a lot of good if they did the same.’ I ask her what kind of work she did. ‘I worked in a shop in Derry for five years, earned five shillings a week. Gave it all to my mam, except I kept a penny.’ ‘You only kept a penny?’ ‘Well, I had no time to spend it anyway.’ Her son was a student at Swansea University but when he graduated, her husband wouldn’t take the day off for his graduation. ‘He always said work came first before everything. He’s dead four years now.’ ‘Of overwork?’ ‘Probably,’ she laughed. ‘These bus passes, they’re great. They don’t have them in Derry. Where are you from? Your accent’s posh.’

I was tempted to say that where I’m coming from right now is the dole office. Yes, I had just been to sign on at the Jobcentre. To redeem myself, I might have added that I’m writing a book on the experience (or, at least, I’m writing something that may be a book). Originally, it was called ‘A Year on the Dole’, but for obvious reasons is now called ‘A Year and a Bit on the Dole’.

People signing on these days are referred to as customers. This is a mirage of niceness. A customer ‘is a person who buys; a person with whom one has dealings.’ We, the unemployed, are not buying and, as for dealings, we come cap in hand. We have no bargaining power. We are supplicants.

After 18 months on Jobseeker’s Allowance, the Jobseeker is put on a mandatory programme of intensive job searching through the ministrations of a private agency where you cease to be a customer. You become a client. I am now a client. Very posh.