Is there any other shade of envelope? Is there any shade more terrifying?
Yes, it's that time again.
You just know. You see the envelope and there is some barely perceptible quality your senses latch on to with predator-like accuracy. The summons from the Department for Work and Pain.
You will be assessed. And assessed. And assessed. Never helped. Always assessed.
This time it is a little different. Long time readers may dismally recall that last time I was told that I would be getting a home interview after they screwed up two appointments at the Misery Centre.
You might think that's a victory, but of course it isn't. My appointment is for sometime between 11am and 1pm on the 13th. They can't be accurate of course, but I guess that's to be expected. The problem is that I'm going to somehow either contrive to get the house to myself, which will be fun, or I will have to beg for a replacement appointment. Something that will not be easy. "Why?" they will demand - as I'm sure the phone will be answered by the hawkish old mare that works in the Misery Centre. Maybe it's the job that just leeches joi de vivre from your bones like rotting meat in the desert, or maybe they just have a knack for finding the most joyless officious miserable creatures and hiring them. But that woman is...not the sort of face you want greeting you when you're rocking up to be assessed by the DWP.
So that just happened. Nothing else to say really; I'm just venting. I don't expect to pass. That will mean having to deal with Universal Credit or somehow finding work before my savings expire. I've got £1300 in the bank. I've kept it back fearing that rainiest of rainy days. Sooner or later, in the welfare state, it always rains, if you catch my drift. What's sad is that I could have put that money to good use. Some people are very good at just buying a travel tick and buggering off and having adventures. Not me though, I've no idea how they manage.
Perhaps I should try it; leave a sign on the door telling the assessor "gone fishing"!
There is no attempt to consider the claimant as a human being, no quarter given in any aspect, nothing. The DWP machine devours people, yet does not acknowledge that they are people. People have complex lives, even the most mundane life has complexities beyond the ken of the DWP and its bastard Tory masters.
ReplyDeleteI still jump out of my skin when I hear the letterbox. Every single time. Whatever the day, whatever I am expecting or not expecting. I don't think I will ever get over this reaction. Before ESA, I didn't mind the post arriving.
Wishing you all the best with this Ghosty.
Lucy
I agree completely. Ironically the only time to relax when the letterbox pops is when you've already been given the bad news.
DeleteTraumatic Post Stress Disorder :(
TPSD ! Nice one :D
DeleteNot nice at all really, but very true.
For some people, it really is PTSD. I know every time that mail drops I have to drop everything and inspect. Some people are way worse and, not to make ligt of it as PTSD is no laughing matter at all, really do suffer that way. This is what our lords and masters have done to society.
DeleteAs a life life long sufferer of utterly crippling, severe & complex PTSD caused by serious, extreme early & later life abuse of myriad type, I allow myself a grin now and again when someone makes a crack about the condition. Humour isn't verboten, it is more help than drugs or sanctimonious admonishment ever could be.
DeleteHumour & psychiatric injury are not mutually exclusive.
Two bouts of cancer have been the very least disabling aspects of my life. Ironically, they are the only ones that semi-effective treatment is offered for on the increasingly capitalist NHS.