Below is another exerpt from my 'Year and a Bit on the Dole'. Official refusal of my benefit claim was the first I heard from the Department of Work and Pensions.
"Friday, 1st April 2005
Another manila envelope. This one contains a letter stating: 'We cannot pay you Jobseeker's Allowance'. There is no explanation. To appeal, I must fill in the form in leaflet GL24. I am stunned but somehow unsurprised. I'm even wondering if it's a good thing: this attempt to obtain a modicum of money from the State, plus, possibly, the payment of my Council Tax. Maybe, I can do without the money; do without the humiliation, the unfathomability of it all.
When not sobbing into rationed tissues, I have been filling my days with more cleaning and tidying. The airing cupboard is cleared of odd socks. I have had time to deal with this sort of thing.
So, it's with the greatest of upset that I see black things on a kitchen shelf. I open the cupboards, and see more black things the size of match heads. Have they been there all along, or is this a sudden infestation of mice? I have lived in this house 17 years and it has been rodent-free all this time. But, when you're down, nature can be relied on to give you a kicking. I am distraught. I have no money to live on and now I have mice. I phone the Council. It'll cost me £65 to have the problem dealt with. That's about £10 more than I'll be expected to live on for a week should I ever be granted Jobseeker's Allowance.
I empty shelves. I clean like a machine. I'm distraught. Dazed. Fearful. I don't like mice. Could be rats, says a friend. I retrieve china and glasses from way back in the cupboards, get rid of the bag of plastic bags (could be a nest), wash every bit of crockery. And, I source the problem -- a bag of flour. I lavishly sprinkle peppermint oil (rodents don't like it) all around the kitchen. It's April 1st but it's no joke.
The task spills into Saturday. When I get up I feel the dread as I tread downstairs to inspect the shelves. Clear of droppings.
I spend the weekend snivelling and cleaning. My daughter has been away for five days; she returns to a mess of a mother.
Tuesday, 5 April 2005.
Today I must sign. It's an act of faith and desperation. My claim for benefits has been rejected and I have received no money which I gather may be because I haven't submitted Form B16/17 explaining my previous self-employment status. I will hand it in to the Jobcentre today. With luck, that will trigger my claim going through.
Meanwhile, I have phoned for jobs. Read newspaper advertisements. Dispatched my CV hither. I want to work because I like being an autonomous person untrammelled by bureaucratic anonymous government departments that decree things like whether I qualify for this pittance.
I am dreading signing on, imagining myself in a scrum of desperate people. But the 'customer' ethos really kicks in here. It turns out the appointment time is actually the time that the claimant is seen. We sit on primal blue and red sofas. Rosey-hued muzak plays in the background. 'I can't make you love me,' laments the singer. We are African, West Indian, white and Asian. Only one bloke is cursing and he's a whippet of a man in polyester sports gear. A guy seated opposite -- he could be Columbian (there are many in Peckham) -- beats out on his thigh a jazzed-up bass line to the soppy music.
My name is called. I go to a desk, sit down. The interviewer, a pleasant woman, asks me what I'm doing about finding work, and seems satisfied with my answers. She tells me the routine: I must look for jobs and tell them at each interview about the progress I've made. That's it, really. She advises me about the process the system is going through to verify my claim, and says at this point I don't need to appeal the fact that my claim has been rejected.
I leave and go to the Persian shop next door and buy baklava. These honeyed pastries are my reward and £1.60 well spent. I'm beginning to feel not so bad. I am not down and out in Peckham, yet."
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