Dole Diaries

Previously called 'Year and a Bit on the Dole', it's now 'Dole Diaries' and below are a few more excerpts. Rather lachrymose this lot, but I don't think you'll need your hanky.

Wednesday, 20 April, 2005
I’m feeling beaten by the Jobseeker (what a misnomer that is) thing. Crying, weeping, wailing, desolate.
Then the doorbell rings. This brightens me up until I discover a pair of Jehovah Witnesses. Who do I think Jesus Christ is, do I read the bible, what do I think about the world’s wickedness, and am I ready for the coming of God’s Kingdom? It’s a lot to ponder. I promise to read the Watchtower. Unemployed. Unloved (because that's how you feel when you're on the dole), but still attractive to religious proselytisers.

About my office lie the corpses of my business chequebooks; the carapaces of the paying-in, paying-out books. Although my mobile is no longer live, my recorded phone message still refers callers to it. It has been like a bereavement. I have wept like one who has lost a loved one. As an earner when I walked out during the day it represented an interlude in my work. But, now when I go out it is as a person with no calls upon her (apart from renewing food stocks). I am aimless. There is no need to speed my step. I tell myself I'm not a victim. This is temporary. I will scratch and scramble out of the slough. I bloody will.

This afternoon, lucky me, I'm going to Tate Britain to see the Turner Whistler Monet exhibition. Art is the last refuge of the impecunious. It will feed my soul and open vistas closed off in my tiny office with its Velux blind closed against the world. It seems to me that art is all.

Thursday, 21 April, 2005
Before leaving for Tate Britain, the post clumps onto the mat. I study my bank statement. Has money from the Jobseeker's Allowance been paid? It has not. Since applying I have received precisely nothing. I phone Makerfield Benefit Centre (the oracle on these matters), and ask what's going on. I am told that the first payment went through a week ago. I am relieved.
‘Thank you, Darren, I say (they always give you their first name).

Next, a letter from Southwark about Council Tax. I’ve already been to the Housing Office with evidence of Child Benefit. But, I must re-present already presented documents. It's simple enough. As I’m dealing with this, the phone rings. It's Darren.
He’s spotted a problem. What happens after you first sign, he says, is that the right-hand box moves to the left-hand box on the screen, and that means the money is sanctioned to go through. In my case, this hasn't happened. The box has stayed to the right of the screen. He says this is probably because I get Child Tax Credit. I must go to my Jobcentre as soon as possible (no show, no money) and fill out an MF47 to make a JSA statement that I don't receive WTC (Working Tax Credit), but I do get CTC (Child Tax Credit).

(He goes on to tell me that for 20 years he worked in industry, and when he moved into this line of work, he was bamboozled by the letters and numbers that are the building blocks of the entire benefits' system. Last night he was explaining a work situation to his wife when suddenly she screamed: 'You've become one of them!’)

For some reason these two further demands dent my precarious sense of unity in mind and body. I could wail. But I have to go see Turner Whistler Monet. This is good. In former days of solvency I joined the Tate so now I can enjoy gratis admission to exhibitions.

Friday, 22 April, 2005
Art was yesterday. Today I must tangle with the Jobcentre. I am in tears. It’s going on six weeks since I entered the alternative universe of the Jobseeker. I have had a bellyful of mis-information, form filling, delays and obstructions. What I haven’t had is any money.