"Write what you know" they say.

Even of what you know is benefits advice work and writing stories about it only pays enough to keep your colleagues in biscuits!



Thursday 30 October 2014

A Nightmare on Benefits Street

There's a grim irony that the next 'fifth Friday' when all the Kindle episodes of my 'welfare rights lit' sequel Limited Capability' are free to download, coincides with Halloween.  I've never thought of describing it as a horror story before, but it exists due to the cruel, sometimes fatal, consequences of welfare reform and for the real victims of austerity, it is just that.

Too many people still don't understand the issues or care about the consequences.  They might have noticed something in their local paper - a sympathetic story about disabled veteran wrongly found fit for work, an inquest verdict on a suicide - but the shriek of 'shirkers and scroungers' from the mass media tells you these are the exceptions, the unlucky few that fall through the safety net that makes such a comfortable hammock for the workshy.  We know it's not like that; most people don't, and won't find out unless they're unlucky enough to need that support.

ESA (Employment and Support Allowance) is suddenly news again, with the appointment of US company Maximus to the contract to provide 'work capability assessments' being vacated by Atos and today a 'leaked' proposal to cut the level of ESA for claimants put in the 'Work-related Activity Group' to just 50p above Jobseeker's Allowance.  We're already being told that familiar myth that this will halt a zombie army intent on claiming benefits that give them an easy life.  People unaware of how hard it is to qualify for ESA even at the 'WRAG' rate will believe this, unless someone tells them the truth - that you can have lost the use of your dominant arm and hand and still not be sufficiently disabled to have 'limited capacity for work', for example.

If you want an accessible way in to the complex reality of Work Capability Assessments, benefit assessments and appeals, you'll find the serial here, along with the prequel novels.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Honeysett/e/B00CGNAZXQ/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1  All 14 episodes are free tomorrow (31st October) from whenever Halloween starts in Amazonland (usually about 8am GMT). 

If you don't know the story, please read it.  If you do know the story, please share it with those who don't, especially those turned off by reports full of figures and regulations.  The DWP have millions of pounds to spend on their propaganda; I have a laptop, a cast of fictional characters and a small but committed group of readers.  I need to believe we can win the next round.

Tuesday 28 October 2014

A New Challenge

I've reached the half-way stage of the latest (and probably last) story about the Walker Family and the Solent Welfare Rights Project and I think I know how various loose ends tie up and subplots resolve themselves, though you can never actually be sure with this cast of characters.

Common sense says I should press on to the end from here and complete that first draft, hopefully in time for quiet reflection and refining over Christmas and, all being well, an ebook serialisation in the New Year.  But siren voices are calling me to try something completely different and more than a tiny bit mad, and one of those voices talks in a distinct Geordie accent.

November, as well as being the month in which some well-intentioned blokes grow moustaches for good causes, is National Novel Writing Month (annoyingly abbreviated to NaNoWriMo which, like quite a lot of acronyms, is harder to say than the phrase it replaces).  The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel during that month.  50,000 is fairly short for a novel (especially one of mine) but a tall order for a month's writing, especially if you have work to do too.  To succeed and produce something worth reading, you need to have done a good deal of preparation and have a clear plan.  The 'Social Insecurity' series had/has little of either.
On the other hand, I have the first draft of a couple of chapters, a notebook full of observations, snatches of dialogue and a well-worked plot, plus photographs for reference, should I decide to commit another story to print.  It would be very different to the other books - told first person from a single perspective and without that neat diary timeline - and while it has austerity politics within its plot, it's no legal drama, social critique or family saga but more of a traditional 'thriller'. 

The tight deadline and limited wordcount might help keep the pace of the story crisp when, as you might have guessed from the photos illustrating this post, the location could slow things down.  The central characters will certainly be lively company.  If you haven't already 'met' Daphne Randall, a snatch of her back story made up the short story here: http://benebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/and-winner-isnt.html  She'll have some interesting company on her journey.

I've just about talked myself into trying this now, and there's one extra advantage.  It delays the point where I have to say goodbye to the cast of the 'Social Insecurity' novels, by a month at least.  Sometimes the journey can be so enjoyable you don't want to reach your destination; it's surprising how attached you can get to imaginary friends!












Sunday 12 October 2014

Short Story, Long March

It's the big TUC Britain needs a Payrise march in London this coming Saturday.  I can't make it - we have other plans for our wedding anniversary weekend this year - but if you are going, I hope you have a truly inspirational day.  

Here's a short story based on the 2012 March Against Austerity.  It involves some of my regular characters and originally appeared as a bit of bonus content in the last chapter of the Limited Capability serial.  There are a few little spoilers - or teasers, perhaps? - for anyone unfamiliar with my earlier stories, though I have edited out some others. 



Marching for Fairness

Saturday 20th October 2012

Jenny Morris woke up when the coach came to a halt.  She’d dozed off after the comfort break at the motorway services.  She’d been out seriously late on her hen night and the girls had got her well drunk.
‘You so don’t want to bother with that stupid Union thing tomorrow!’ Sita Rai had said as they had crawled out of the taxi and back up to their flat. 
But Jenny did want to bother with it.  Sita might not think they had anything to worry about, but she didn’t talk to the older members of the team.  Jenny sat opposite Penny Marsh, their section leader, and she was scared that a load of jobs would go once the new Universal Credit came in and more claims went computerised.  ‘You ought to join the Union, Jen,’ she said, soon after Jenny had told the team that she and Dean had got engaged.  ‘If you’re hoping to get a place of your own and start a family, you’ll need to know your job is secure.’  And then she’d gone on to explain why she didn’t think it was any more.
Jen didn’t enjoy her first union meeting.  It was well boring.  But the next one was much better.  A new guy called Andy had been voted in as Branch Secretary.  He was a lot younger than the previous woman and didn’t dawdle about reading through ‘Minutes’ at the start, or get hung up about whether something was a resolution for voting on or just a comment for discussion.  All that stuff did Jenny’s head in.  Andy was good at making sure people got the chance to speak who wanted to, but also good at stopping boring people who just wanted to rant on.  He got interesting people in to talk to them too.  He got a bloke from the Welfare Rights Project in to explain how changes to Legal Aid would hurt people wanting to appeal benefit decisions.  When Jen had read about this in the paper, she’d thought it was good that that lazy gits trying to stay on benefits wouldn’t get taxpayer’s money to fight their cases, but listening to this old guy talking about people he and his colleagues had helped made it seem unfair and horrible after all. 
The welfare rights man used to work for the DWP and was still a member of their union, so Andy had invited him and his colleagues to share their coach to the demonstration.  Jen could see their group sitting in a cluster of seats about halfway down the coach, quite close to her but on the opposite side.  As well as the man who’d addressed their meeting sitting next to a woman in a hat, there was an older guy and a short black woman with her hair done up in beads, and in front of them a blond guy wearing a red and white Southampton FC scarf and a thin studenty-looking bloke.  Jenny had been sitting near them when she’d had her coffee at the services and had listened to them talking and laughing.  They seemed friendly and nice.  She hoped she’d never been stroppy with any of them when she answered the phones, or forgotten to pass on their messages.
Andy the union rep was sitting a few seats in front on the other side of the aisle, deep in conversation with a man Jenny didn’t recognise, but who was quite good-looking.  Andy had been up and down the coach talking to most of them and handing out information sheets about the route of the march, where the coach would be to take them home, what time they had to be back to it, and what to do if they got arrested.
That bit had freaked Sita out; she was going to slip away and go shopping in Oxford Street.  Jen hadn’t made up her mind whether to go with her or not.
Sita must have noticed her glancing along the aisle.  ‘You totally shouldn’t be looking at that hot guy!  You’re marrying Dean next weekend!’
‘I know!’ Jen replied crossly.  ‘But I don’t know who he is.  Do you?’
‘No, but I wish I did!  He’s well fit!’
Jen saw Andy stand up and make his way to the front of the coach, ducking his head right down as he did so.  He took up the microphone and explained how they were getting from the coach park to the demonstration, which involved a short walk and a Tube journey.  ‘We’ll all stick together,’ he said.  ‘But if you take a flag each it’ll be easier for me and the other stewards to spot you all.’  At the mention of stewards, Jen saw Penny putting her high-visibility PCS vest on.  Joe Lucas from the ESA section had one too: the big Scot looked like a bouncer. 
Sheet of stickers were being passed down the rows.  Jenny stuck one on her coat that read ‘68 is too late’.  She couldn’t imagine what it would be like still going to work when she was that old.  She offered the sheet to Sita, but she didn’t want to make her jacket all gooey.  Further up the coach, the welfare rights guy seemed to be taking a lot of trouble to make sure one was properly stuck to the chest of the woman in the hat and she had put one on his cheek.  They were giggling like a couple of teenagers. 
It was well sad.
As Jenny got off of the coach, Andy passed her a bright yellow flag with the Union’s logo in the middle. 
Sita didn’t take one.  ‘It’ll get in the way going round the shops,’ she said to Jen, once they were out of Andy’s hearing.  ‘You’ll have to bin it before we get to Selfridges or they’ll think we’re going to break their windows or whatever.  At least it’s small enough to get rid of easily, not like the ones they’ve brought.’
She pointed back towards the coach where the advice people were getting things out from the storage area.  There was a placard with the words ‘A Future Fair for All’ painted on it in old-fashioned writing and a colourful banner that needed two people to carry it saying ‘Solent Welfare Rights Project’, also in fancy writing and with a swirling design around it.  Jen thought they looked classy.
At the Tube station the ticket lady waved them all through the barrier without making them pay and when the train came in there were other people with banners and flags on it already.  The ticket guy waved them all through again at the other end.  ‘Excellent!’ said Sita.  ‘We can use the money we’ve saved on our fares for a latte and a blueberry muffin in Starbucks!’
Jenny wasn’t taking much notice of her because, now they were right out of the station and onto the bridge over the Thames, she could see the crowds gathering along the Embankment.  They were heading towards a mass of blue flags and among those was a huge inflatable bubble with something inside that looked like a big grey fish.  There were a couple of big balloons too.
‘Oh.  My.  God!’ said Sita.
‘That’s us!’ shouted Andy, pointing across the river to where there were lots of yellow flags and a big yellow balloon.  ‘Follow me!’  He waved his own flag high in the air and set off at a fast pace.  Jen wasn’t the only one having trouble keeping up with his long strides but once they got among the other demonstrators there wasn’t much room and he had to slow right down.
Jenny looked at the people around them.  She had expected most of them to be students and other young people but there were loads of people as old as her mum, or even older.  Some had lollipop-shaped placards with a row of little stick people on and the words ‘Coalition of Resistance’ and there were others with ‘Socialist Worker’ or ‘Socialist Party’ on them, but most people had Union flags or banners and were from all sorts of different professions.  The blue flag people turned out to be teachers and the thing she had thought was a fish was a gigantic blow-up pair of scissors with a message against education cuts.  A big crowd of PCS people were just in front of them and she saw Andy hugging and shaking hands with some men and women in fluorescent vests who she guessed were other union reps.
‘Oh my God, Jen!’ Sita grasped her arm.  ‘Don’t look at them, not so it’s obvious, but there are some of those anarchists over there!  We should go, before it all kicks off!’
Jenny stole a cautious glance in the direction Sita had indicated.  ‘You are well stupid,’ she said.  ‘Just coz they’re wearing black!  Can’t you see their poster?  They’re junior doctors dressed up as undertakers because the A&E at their hospital is going to be closed.’
‘That’s well bad.’  Sita actually sounded as if she cared. ‘But there’s still loads of people here!  I bet they won’t miss us if we go shopping.’
‘Not yet,’ Jenny said.  She had never been on a demonstration before and thought it would be cool to walk a little bit of the way with the others, at least as far as Big Ben.  She just wished people would stop waving all these bits of paper at her with political stuff on.  She had taken some to be polite, but they must have been printed cheaply as her hand was all dirty where the ink had come off.
‘Aren’t those old banners nice?’ she said to Sita.  ‘There’s one with a lovely painting of a ship on it.  My granddad used to go to sea.’ 
‘What’s that one with the flames on it?’ Sita said, pointing across the crowd as they came round past the Houses of Parliament.
Jenny couldn’t see where she meant for all the people packed around her.
‘It’s the Fire Brigades Union,’ said Andy, coming back through his group to check that they were all okay and to hand out little cardboard cartons of fruit juice.
‘No shit!’ Sita said.  ‘God, Jen!  You should so have told me there would be firemen on this march!  I’m totally staying now!’ 
Daphne Randall stood on the corner where Whitehall entered Trafalgar Square, watching the marchers passing.  Tens of thousands had passed before her and yet, from what the Unite steward beside her was saying to the policeman, this was less than a quarter of those on the move.  She had seen masses of red Unite flags, the purple and green of Unison - which always put her in mind of the Suffragettes – brass bands, bangra bands and cacophany of other street musicians.  The message might be an angry one - a demand to put an end to damaging cuts to Public Services - but the mood was pure carnival.
Daphne walked back against the flow of the marchers.  She was confident of finding her friends in the crowd despite its size; Hilary Carrington had sent her a photograph of the glorious banner that her husband had designed and painted for their project and the pretty placards he’d made.  They reminded Daphne of the lovely Victorian ones she had seen in Manchester’s People’s History Museum, all very Art Nouveau. 
There was a throng of yellow-flagged PCS people coming up Whitehall towards Daphne now and, sure enough, mingling with them she could see an elegant placard with the words ‘Benefit Cuts are not Social Justice’,  It was borne by a small black woman, while two young men shouldered the main banner of the Solent Welfare Rights Project between them.  Talking to one of them was a lean old guy and at his side, striding along purposefully with a UCATT flag, was a very tall and heavily built redhead girl that Daphne thought she recognised.  Hilary's husband was marching beside her, bearing his ‘A Future Fair for All’ placard; holding his other hand was Hilary Carrington herself.
Daphne chuckled to herself.  She would have staked money on it that Hilary’s outfit had been bought specially for today, possibly from one of those classy little vintage clothes shops she loved perusing.  That baker-boy cap and the flowing corduroy skirt were straight from the 1960s and the waistcoat completed the ‘activist chic’ look.  As Daphne waved and elbowed her way through to meet her friend, she noticed with a little pang of sadness that one of the badges Hilary had pinned to it read ‘Coal not Dole.’  It was hard to believe that little button was almost thirty years old.  It was hardly surprising that Hilary felt the need to look the part.  As if to prove the point that women were forever being judged by how they dressed not what they did, they were now passing the memorial to the Women of World War II.  Daphne smiled grimly: it took the form of a series of empty uniforms hanging from pegs. 
‘How super to see you!’  Hilary hugged her.  ‘There must be at least as many people here as last time!’
Daphne fell into step beside her.  ‘I cannot say, Hills.  I was talking to a Unite steward earlier and he said there wasn’t as many, but I haven’t seen to the back yet and there are certainly hordes of people in front of us.’ 
‘I do hope there isn’t trouble anywhere,’ said an older woman walking nearby.  ‘All I saw on the news after the March for the Alternative was Anarchists with flares grappling with riot police.  You’d never have believed that over three hundred thousand Trades Unionists had paraded entirely peacefully through the capital on the same day.’
‘This is Margot from the PCS,’ Hilary said, introducing her to Daphne. 
‘Daph Randall, Potteries Women’s Rights,’ said Daphne.  ‘I had to come down for this.  My area is being completely hammered by this vile Government.’
The same was equally true of her birthplace in the northeast.
‘I’m sure,’ Margot replied.  ‘I’m due to retire this year - at a cushy sixty unlike my young colleagues.  But I don’t mind supporting them.  We all need to stand together.  And I do so enjoy listening to young Mark Serwotka!  I think quite a few of us ladies have a soft spot for that lilting Welsh accent!’
‘Shame on you, Margot!’ 
‘I’m rather looking forward to hearing Frances O’Grady’ Hilary remarked.  ‘It’s about time a woman became TUC General Secretary.’
‘It certainly is,’ Daphne agreed.  ‘After all, the other side had one in charge almost forty years ago!’
‘It can’t be as long as that, can it?’  Daphne’s friend looked absolutely horrified. 
‘It’s not quite that long,’ she answered reassuringly.  ‘Thatcher was elected Tory leader in 1975, so that’s only thirty-something years ago.’
‘Thirty-seven,’ the tall ginger-haired woman in front of them called back over her shoulder.  Daphne remembered she had spoken to her at Hilary’s wedding, but couldn’t get her name for the moment.
‘Sweet mercy!’
Daphne linked Hilary’s arm.  Inside, she herself didn’t feel very different to the woman who had done just that when she, Hilary, bookish Godfrey Higginbotham and dishy Nathan Bankside had led the Students’ Union march down from the University to join the rally at the end of the Miners’ Strike.  It didn’t trouble her overmuch that on the outside she was stouter and wrinklier, got out-of-breath on the second flight of steps up to her office in the Town Hall and that, had she not chosen to turn it purple for the occasion, her hair was now more salt than pepper.  But Hilary was different.  Daphne changed the subject quickly back to the present. 
‘How’s things at the Project, Hills?’
‘Busy and relying on our volunteers more than ever.  We’ve got a new recruit starting next week,’ Hilary replied as they left Trafalgar Square and turned into Pall Mall.  ‘She’s hoping to run for the Council in the next local elections and wants some practical experience of housing and benefit issues, so she’s offering to do three mornings a week with us.’
‘And if she’s going to be battling Sleazy Gerry for his seat, H is going to want to give her all the help she can get!’ added the woman whose name almost certainly wasn’t Suzy, but was something like that.
‘Who’s Sleazy Gerry?’ asked Daphne.
‘It’s a long story,’ Hilary replied.
‘And Piccadilly is a long road.  You can tell it me between here and Hyde Park with no trouble I’m sure, pet!’
‘I’m getting well bored now, Jen.’  Although some of the guys on the march had been quite fit, especially those junior doctors, her feet were starting to hurt now and Sita Rai desperately needed a coffee.  ‘There’s a Costa over there!’ 
She grabbed Jenny Morris’s arm and propelled her out of the seething crowd towards the coffee shop.  Her friend didn’t struggle too much and seemed as relieved as Sita when two people stood up from a table in the window just as they walked in and they could grab their seats. 
Jenny propped her PCS flag against the windowpane.  ‘I’ll get the drinks and stuff,’ she offered.
‘Cool!’  While her colleague was up at the counter, Sita watched the marchers going by.  There were hundreds and hundreds!  Just the blue flag people seemed to go on for ages, though that might have been because time was dragging while Jen waited in the queue for their drinks and cakes.  When she came back, there were orange flags and a brass band outside.
‘They’d run out of blueberry.  Is cherry and almond okay?  You aren’t allergic to nuts or anything?’
Sita looked at the frothy mug and the tempting golden brown muffin.  ‘No way - I love nuts, ‘specially almonds.’  She thought she’d be more likely to tempt Jenny out of the demo and into the shops if she sweet-talked her a bit.  ‘That’s totally cool, Jen; thanks!’  She so needed that coffee! 
‘Look at that poster!’ Jenny said, pointing out of the window, ‘It’s well rude!’
‘Oh my God!’  Sita could see which one she meant.  ‘That man looks like he’s got a giant condom on his head!’
‘It’s supposed to be the Prime Minister!’ Jenny laughed. 
‘Isn’t that, like, treason or something?’
‘Duh!  No way!  It would only be treason if it was the Queen, or Prince Charles.’
‘Right!’  Sita wasn’t sure that was right, legally.  There was another placard showing someone she thought was from the Government with his head in a guillotine.  That must be treason!
Just then, two strange men came into the café.  They were old, or at least middle-aged, and one of them looked like he might have what Sita knew she should call a ‘learning difficulty’.  The disabled guy had an orange and black flag with GMB on it, which he was swishing about and smiling at.  The other man propped a placard against the wall as they took seats at a table behind Sita and Jen.  It had ‘REMPLOY SACKED WORKER – WHERE IS MY JOB?’ printed on it in big red letters.
‘I don’t suppose you girls could keep an eye on Trev while I grab us a tea, could you?’ asked the other man.  He sounded Welsh.
‘What’s he likely to do?’ Sita asked.  She didn’t want to have to watch out for the disabled man if he was going to be weird.
‘Nothing,’ said his friend.  ‘But I left him while I bought us a snack once before, and while I was away a couple of boys started teasing him and I’m sure they also stole his wallet, though we couldn’t prove it.’
‘That’s well mean!’  She looked at Jen.  ‘I suppose that would be okay…’
‘Or if you give me the money, I could go up and get your drinks?’ Jen suggested. 
Sita guessed she didn’t really want to be left in charge of the disabled man either and this was a smart way of getting out of it.
‘Would you mind?  I’d be ever so obliged, miss!’  The guy looked really grateful.  He fished about in his pockets and gave Jenny a ten-pound note.  ‘We just fancy a cup of tea each.  Thank you so much!’
‘Thank you!’ said his friend.  He gave Jenny a big smile and waved the flag at her.
Sita was annoyed with her friend for leaving her with these two guys she didn’t know and didn’t particularly want to talk to, but it would be rude to ignore them and look out of the window. 
‘What’s Remploy?’ she asked, pointing at the placard. 
‘We started off running factories where disabled ex-servicemen could get jobs after the War,’ said the man.  ‘The Department for Work and Pensions funded them to teach people new skills and provide rehabilitation.  But since then, we’ve taken people from all sorts of backgrounds and with all manner of disabilities who can’t readily find work in commercial organisations, but still have skills and deserve a chance.  Trevor here does upholstery.  He’s not fast, but he’s neat: aren’t you mate?’
Trevor grinned proudly.
‘And it gives him somewhere to go during the day and some mates to hang out with, and he earns a fair wage so can give his mam and dad something for his keep, and of course it means they can go out during the day without worrying about him.  Well, they could.’
‘But Trevor’s been sacked?’ Sita asked.  That didn’t seem a very nice thing to do, even if he was slow.
‘We all have.  They closed us down in the summer.  The theory is, the money spent on the factories can be better used to support disabled people in mainstream workplaces, rather than segregating us into places of our own.  I suppose there’s an argument of sorts for that… ’
‘But you don’t agree?’
‘I can’t honestly say that I do.  Most factories by us are struggling anyway, or they’ve already closed down.  They want workers who are as productive as possible and don’t need watching over by managers and supervisors.  I can’t see them being in much of a hurry to take on the likes of Trevor and me.  That’s why we’re here.  They are fifty or so other factories like ours all over the country, and they’re gradually shutting them all down.’
‘That’s well wrong!’
‘Isn’t it, now?’
‘Totally!’  Sita realised she actually worked for the same Government Department as Trevor and his friend.  ‘I suppose Trevor gets ESA now - Employment and Support Allowance?’
‘Well, he probably should do,’ said his colleague.  ‘But he was found fully fit for work at his medical the other week, so I’m helping him with an appeal now.  I’m out of work too, but I’m volunteering at our local Citizens Advice Bureau.’
‘I suppose it’ll be easier for you to get a new job.  You aren’t disabled, are you?’
‘Not so as you’d notice straight away,’ he said, resting his right arm on the table.
Sita flinched when he drew the glove off of his hand and she saw it was actually a metal claw. 
‘I was one of the supervisors in our factory,’ he said with a deep laugh.  ‘My name’s Gareth, but the boys used to call me Darth Vader!’ 
‘I hate to call for the desecration of a work of art,’ Toby Novak said to Martin Connolly.  ‘But do you think we could cut some holes in this banner?  Whenever there’s a gust of wind, it's like tacking a yacht!’
‘I’ve got my Swiss Army knife if you need it,’ offered Sally Archer, transfering her UCATT flag to her left hand and fishing about in her pockets.
‘Then make sure you don’t get arrested or the cops will do you for possessing an offensive weapon!’ Martin warned her.
‘That’s not going to happen – it would take too many of them to hold me down.  I’d be really useful if they did one of those occupations anywhere!’
‘We’ve very nearly reached Hyde Park now,’ Vaughan said.  He had taken a turn carrying the banner with Toby.  ‘We can rest it against a tree or roll it up when we arrive.  Personally, I’d hate to damage it.’
Toby wasn’t feeling quite so sentimental, but then he had been carrying the banner throughout the march while various colleagues had taken turns to share the burden of the other pole.  He was probably the strongest and fittest member of the team so it seemed only fair and, even if it was an ungainly spinnaker of a thing, it was also a great banner in the finest tradition of the Trades Union movement.
It was only when they had decided they needed a banner that Toby and his colleagues realised they weren’t all in the same union.  He had always assumed they were all in Unite.  He had been from right back when it was the old T&G and he knew Hilary had been in the MSF when it merged into Amicus, which then became part of Unite too.  But Tricia was still in Unison from when she worked for the Victory Housing Association, Hilary's husband was PCS and Martin, people’s hero and champion of the workers, reluctantly confessed he wasn’t actually in a union at all.
‘I didn’t know which one to join,’ he had protested.
The discussion picked up again as they filed through the ornate heraldic gates into Hyde Park.
‘Should we all be in the same Union, do you think?’ Hilary asked her colleagues.   
‘It could be a bit of a mess if we ever ended up in a dispute with the Management Committee and needed a Union officer to support us,’ said Tricia.  ‘I assumed you’d all be in Unison because you were based in a Council building when I started.  Richard never said anything.’
‘Was Richard in a Union?’ asked Martin.
‘The TSSA,’ answered Hilary.  ‘He started work doing rosters and payrolls for the railways.  That’s where he mastered the dark art of statistics and arcane calculations.’
‘But that was hardly the union for our line of work, was it?’ Toby queried.
‘Perhaps not,’ Hilary replied.  ‘But they did give us a small grant every year and they’ve been in touch to confirm they will this year too!’
‘So which Union are you going to join, Mart?’ Sally asked.
The young man shrugged.  ‘I don’t know.  H and Toby are both in Unite, so that’s the majority, but there might be another one for me.  Were you in a Union, Vaughan?’
‘One could stretch a point and say that I was, if one was to include the Law Society!’
‘Get away, Vaughan!’ laughed Hilary.  ‘I would have thought Equity was more your style!’
‘Pot and kettle, my dear!’ Vaughan protested.
‘What about you, Daphne?’ asked Sally.
‘I’m Unison, lass.’
‘That would do you, Mart.’
‘Don’t encourage him to make common cause with the Enemy!’
Tricia cuffed Toby lightly round the head with her placard. 
‘This is not about football, you sad fool!  It’s about the best Union for the Project.  There’s some sense in him joining us - and the rest of you, for that matter.’
‘Now then, Tricia, no poaching!’ Hilary's husband warned.  ‘We’re almost at the rally.  Why not let Martin listen to the speakers and then decide which Union he wants to join?’
‘Christ!’ said Toby. 
As they emerged from a grove of trees and crested a rise, they saw for the first time the number of people who had preceded them.  ‘We’ll be doing well to get close enough to hear anybody!’
 
Jenny was sound asleep, her head resting on her jacket, which was rolled up and propped against the coach window.  Sita didn’t know how her friend could sleep on a coach.  It made her feel sick.
She glanced up at the luggage rank.  When they’d set off that morning, she’d expected to be coming home with loads of shopping from the cool stores along Oxford Street.  She’d planned to get herself a dress and new shoes for Jen’s wedding, for a start.  She certainly hadn’t expected to spend most of the afternoon talking to a guy with a metal hand and his friend with learning disabilities as they’d marched together to Hyde Park, behind the FBU brass band.
That had been a bonus!
When they arrived at Hyde Park, there were already loads of people leaving and all the speeches had finished so the four of them had gone for another drink together and talked about the day, and then she and Jen had wished the guys luck with getting new jobs and caught the Tube back to the coach park.  Jen still had her yellow flag and Sita had the orange and black one Trevor had given her, so the ticket people had let them on for nothing again. 
Sita could overhear a conversation going on a few seats further up between two of the Welfare Rights people.  The lady in the hat’s partner was talking to the studenty one.
‘Don’t be daft, Martin!  You can’t join the RMT!’
 ‘But Bob Crow was seriously funny!  That bit about George Osborne dodging his train fare…!’
‘I know it was.  But you can’t pick a Union based on which General Secretary does the best stand-up routine!  Especially when you aren’t actually a transport worker!’
Sita thought she had better join the PCS now.  She didn’t know if she’d want to start giving up her lunchtimes to go to meetings like Jen did, but at least if she joined she would be standing with her workmates and doing something for people like Gareth and Trevor.
‘Excuse me?’
Sita looked round.  It was the good-looking guy. 
‘Did you speak to the press?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.  She’d almost forgotten that.  On the way along Piccadilly a woman with a microphone and a cameraman had stopped her little group and asked them a few questions about why they were there.  She couldn’t remember saying anything that brilliant and didn’t think it would be broadcast.’
‘I thought it looked like you!  You’re on SKY!’   He handed her his Smartphone.  ‘Look!’
Sita saw herself standing between Trevor and Gareth, with Jen peeping in from one side.
‘Andy!  Come and look at this!’ said the dishy guy.
The Branch Secretary crouched awkwardly in the aisle, watching it with a huge grin.
‘That was great!’ he said when it finished.  ‘I’m sure a lot of people will be very moved by that.’
Sita had forgotten that she’d been quite so wound up at that point.  That she’d told the journalist that Remploy had been set up to help heroes and that people like Gareth and Trevor were heroes too, even if they hadn’t got their disabilities in wars, and deserved to be properly treated.
‘That really was good,’ the nice-looking man said.  ‘I’m Press and Publicity Officer for the Branch.  I’d love to use this on our website.  Would you mind…er?  Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a Branch Meeting.  Are you new?’
‘Yes,’ said Sita, deciding this was true as she was new to the Union.  ‘My name’s Sita Rai, and I’ll definitely be at the next meeting!’   

Tuesday 7 October 2014

Disappointment

So Severe Discomfort is not The Guardian's 'self-published book of the month' for October.

I had high hopes when I spotted this competition - but I have high hopes whenever I enter a competition or send a submission off to a prospective agent or publisher.  Victory or acceptance is certain and as a result, my work will reach the audience it deserves.  Books will sell in serious numbers.  Funds will be raised that do more than buy biscuits.  Public opinion will shift.  The Daily Mail's sales will slump.  The minds of politicians will be changed.  Policies will be rewritten...   

However, within minutes of dropping the envelope into the box or pressing send, I am convinced that I haven't a hope in hell of getting out of the slush piles, let alone winning the prize or contract.  It's all a waste of time.  I've pitched it wrong - and to the wrong people.  It starts too slowly.  The characters are too ordinary.  It's not literary enough.  Its chronological format is too conventional.

- It's not very good...

- But 'Occupy London' gave it a great review, and so did those people on Amazon and Goodreads, and only a couple of them are my friends.

- You don't have any friends...

This Gollumesque monolgue persists until an outcome is known.  The lingering hope is torture until the result is published.  The deadline passes without contact. The rejection letter or email arrives.  It's simultaneously a disappointment and a release.

This time it was worse than usual as, having entered the competition in August I assumed it would be September's result I needed to watch.  As the first Tuesday approached and there was no contact, hope faded.  A worthy winner was named.  Then I looked more closely and found September's result was the judgment on July's entries.  Hope was cruelly rekindled for another month - only to be snuffed out again. 

And I really was optimistic this time.  Previous winners of the Guardian's monthly contest have been a pretty ecclectic selection and, although it ought to be a measure of literary merit, you do half-hope that a progressive paper might take pity on your political agenda if not your prose.  Imagination conjures up a scene in which an earnest junior reviewer pleads your cause, even as the Chancellor is on his feet at the Conservative conference being cheered for slashing in-and-out of work benefits alike.  But if there was (and it's conforting to think there might have been), he or she hasn't prevailed.

Never mind, eh?  It may have made very little difference to the book's prospects.  After all, I had to search surprisingly hard for this month's result as the story doesn't even figure on the 'books' page of their 'culture' section today.  If I had been the winner (Mark Capell with Cafe Insomnia - good luck, old chap!) I would have felt more than a little short-changed at that. 

Anyway, I'll keep trying.  I am an optimist at heart - didn't I return to benefits advice work in 2013, just as things started to get really nasty?  The prospect of fighting a long defeat does not daunt me.

So let's see - I wonder if the Morning Star run a writing competition?