Schrödinger's Fox and Other Animals

I was stopped on my way into the office this morning by a pleasant, studious-looking chap with a microphone, who introduced himself as being from Radio Stoke, before asking courteously if I had heard about Theresa May's plan to give MPs a 'free vote' on fox hunting and what I thought about that. 

Unfortunately, in addition to making me sound like Darth Vader's long-lost sister (I'm sure he has one, with Star Wars having almost as complicated a series of misplaced relatives as Classical Greek tragedy), the cold I am currently fighting off has dulled my wits slightly, so I did my best to actually answer his question. 

With hindsight, that was a mistake.  Not because I don't have an opinion - I do.  It's further down and will explain the title of this post.  My mistake was not responding by questioning why he hadn't been loitering about outside the CAB in December last year, when the local rate for the Benefit Cap was slashed by £6000 (Child Tax Credit/ Child Benefit for two kids), or whether he had taken his trusty vox pop microphone out on the streets to find out if people approved of the cuts to benefits for widows and orphans last month? 

My point, in short, should have been that I find it bizarre that it's so much easier engender debate and elicit sympathy when the issue is cruelty to animals.  Cruelty to humans - whether that's through sanctions, the Bedroom Tax, cuts to disability and sickness benefits or the new 'two child limit' and 'rape clause' for CTC and Universal Credit - raises barely a shrug of the shoulders.  Moreover, we're told it's generally popular with voters, who approve of cutting benefits to encourage the workshy to take jobs and the feckless to stop having kids.  Animals are defenceless, they would argue, so we have to protect them. I get that: I don't disagree.  But human children are also pretty defenceless and last century we started taking serious measures to protect them too, by making sure their parents had enough money to keep them in the necessities of life and to put a roof over their heads.  Now, we often don't - indeed, if we cap a family's benefits, the first thing stopped by the state is a slice of the rent money. 

How are people content to let that happen?  I will take a great deal of convincing that the fault doesn't lay at the door of media representation of people on benefits.  Imagine if instead of the usual seasonal celebration of British Wildlife we had Bad Springwatch, where we saw foxes going berserk in chicken coops and ripping up new-born lambs - but not hunting wild prey and absolutely never their pretty, joyful, gambolling cubs.  Birdlife would be represented by chip-thieving seagulls hanging about seaside resorts and feral pigeons crapping on statues of national heroes, not chirpy blue-tits or majestic kestrels, while the evil alter ego of Chris Packham (a Richard Bilton for animals) would exhort people not to put seed and scraps out for the birds, or snacks for hedgehogs, on the grounds that it encourages dependency. 

That, folks, is the equivalent - in animal terms - of the TV output about claimants. 

What about the foxes, though?  Well, I'm not in favour of fox-hunting.  To me, not only does it seem barbaric to the wild animal to chase it for fun, it's surely cruel to both dogs and horses to ride them at speed across a route that hasn't first been checked for hazards, such as barbed wire fences, slurry pits and broken glass, and dangerous for them and their riders.  A planned drag hunt, following a scent trail, mitigates these risks and prevents the risk of trespass onto land where a troop of horses and hounds aren't welcome.

What never fails to amuse me is that if the subject arises amongst people with divergent views (I sometimes go horse-riding, so do encounter people strongly in favour), two completely contradictory defences of the practice are offered.  I'm either told 'the fox usually got away' or, alternatively, I'm assured that fox-hunting is the most effective way of controlling the rural fox population. Hence, 'Schrödinger's Fox' - simultaneously alive and well, having cunningly outwitted the pursuit, and dead.

Perhaps the pro-hunt lobby should pause to consider the effect of their preferred method of control.  Those foxes that do get away are the swiftest, the sharpest, the 'fittest' in the most Darwinian sense.  Those killed by the hunt are the slowest and the least fit.  You are, therefore, breeding a cleverer, faster rural fox, a wiser and wilier foe, generation by generation.

You should be worried.

Politics and Principles

I'm not always kind to the political figures who have walk-on appearances in my novels.  If you've read either the welfare rights lit stories or the 4mph thrillers (or even both - hello, greatest fan!) you'll know what a venal, conniving, disloyal and unscrupulous bunch of villains scuttle through the corridors of power in my fictional councils.  There are a few valiant exceptions - after all, did not the redoubtable Daphne Randall hold a seat on Stoke City Council in the parallel universe of Grand Union?  However, in the aftermath of the Local Government elections - and some very local in particular - perhaps the grounds for my cynicism have become more apparent.

In the village where I grew up, the first borough councillor I recall seeing elected was a LibDem, right up to the point where the Tories seemed to be in the ascendancy, when he swapped his gold rosette for a blue one and retained his seat.  A few years later, as the tables turned, he threw the blue rosette away, blew the dust off of the old gold one and regained his seat in the council chamber.  If you were being charitable, you might argue that he found common ground with the Tories in the John Major years only to return to the liberal fold when the likes of Michael Howard and IDS were Conservative leaders.  Alternatively, you might think he was merely an unprincipled opportunist. 


I find myself uncharitably disposed towards those who jump straight from holding elected office with one party to campaigning to be elected for another without a decent period of transition and reflection in between.  Perhaps that's because my own political journey moved at positively narrowboat pace, from leaning towards Labour before I could vote (late 1970s), becoming interested in the case for nuclear disarmament (early 1980s), voting Labour the first time I could vote (1983), joining the Labour Party and meeting my husband at a Labour Party event (1987), campaigning for the Labour Party (late 1980s to mid 1990s) and being a local candidate for an unwinnable borough council seat (1988), giving up my party membership (mid 1990s), voting Labour in a General Election for the last time (2010), voting Green for the first time (2015), joining the Green Party (2015). 


With a lot of overlap between the values of Jeremy Corbyn's Labour and the policies that have drawn me to the Green Party, I find myself with a foot in both camps, hoping that the Greens will prevail where Labour are historically unlikely to do well (and against avowed Blairites), while hoping Labour will hold firm and make gains too.  In the short-to-medium-term, the only vaguely realistic hope of preventing further NHS privatisation, further social security cuts and the immoral waste of precious resources on Trident is a left-leaning Labour Government requiring SNP, Plaid and Green votes for a Commons majority.  To me, being triumphalist about Labour's poor showing this week would be like engaging in an exuberant goal celebration after scoring against your old side in front of their fans, even if their losses had come at the expense of progressive - rather than regressive - opposition. 


So I really don't get how any politician of integrity can, overnight, defect straight from holding office for Labour to doing the same for the Conservatives (or, for that matter, vice versa).  I find it extraordinary that anyone can switch right to the Tories in the light of their assault on the NHS, public services generally and the most disadvantaged citizens of this country - including children.  If you are desperately unhappy with Jeremy Corbyn as your party leader, maybe you might step aside and consider whether to change your voting allegiance.  But surely, if you are so much more comfortable with Theresa More-UKIP-Than-UKIP May as your party leader that you're now willing to represent her party, you should never have claimed to be a Labour councillor - unless, of course, Labour and the Tories really got so close in outlook and policies in the Blair years that their policies and candidates were interchangeable and natural Tories were comfortable flashing red rosettes to steal working-class communities. 

What the big picture hides are all the small local disputes that muddy the waters of local politics.  Apparently, Labour losses in the Welsh valleys are attributed locally to issues with bin collection, a strictly local issue of the 'tough on dog poo, tough on the causes of dog poo,' variety favoured by that chameleon former councillor from my youth.  The Tories may crow about winning one local seat around here and Labour right-wingers mutter darkly about their national Party leadership, but there isn't a great deal poor old JC can do if two former Labour councillors - now running as a Tory and an Independent respectively - face off against the new official Labour councillor on the basis of local, not national, feuding.  When drawing conclusions from Local Government results, absurd situations like this get lost in the bigger narrative although, where they arise from personal rather than policy differences, they bring politics as a whole into disrepute and stoke the general mood of cynicism. 

The fictional Gerry Matthews would fit in nicely; he'd just have to swap the purple rosette on his shiny suit for a blue one.  I'm sure plenty of real Kipper councillors will be quick to do just that.

#NotPortsmouth #NotSunderland

As an adopted Potteries resident originally from Southampton, who occasionally takes time off from benefits geekery to write 4mph thrillers staring a Geordie lass, discovering that the current joint front runners for City of Culture 2021 are Portsmouth and Sunderland was something of a call to arms! 

It's not that I wasn't already backing the bid - I am and I genuinely believe a win would be a huge boost to this misrepresented city - but seriously, Portsmouth...?

So here are a pair of characters you might (or might not*) recognise, at the Stoke-on-Trent for City of Culture 2021 launch event...

    'I cannot see a thing from here.  Why do I always get the tallest bloke in the crowd, carrying his kid on his shoulders, standing in front of me?  I'm moving round a bit, pet.'
    Daphne Randall had thought she had picked a prime spot to watch the show, with a clear view of Hanley Town Hall.  Five Pierrot-faced drummers in illuminated suits were pounding out a samba beat and exhorting the crowd to clap along in unison.   Daphne stretched and craned her neck for a better view.  There seemed to be movement up on the balcony above the front door.  As her companion had remarked, the eerily floodlit Victorian Gothic edifice bore more than a passing resemblance to the Addams Family's mansion.
    'That's the new MP for Stoke Central, duck.  Gareth Snell.  I might try and grab a quote for Monday's edition.  Ruth Smeeth is over there too.  I reckon she'll have a word...'
    Daphne grabbed his arm.  'Not so fast, Harry Biddulph - it's your day off and we're on a date!  One of your mates from the Six Towns Gazette will be on the case; don't you fret about that.  Stick with us, or I'll lose you in this crowd.'  She steered him away.  'Why are all the MPs in this city so tall?  They make me feel like a hobbit!'
    'We might be getting some new ones soon.  They might be nearer your size - or even shorter!'
    'I'm happy enough with the Red Giants, thanks!  They're better than Blue Meanies, anyways.'
    'It would be headline news, duck.  A good story...'
    'A good story indeed!  Get away with you, Harry!  I know when you're winding me up.'
    The drumming ceased.  The Town Hall glowed in fiery tones and, from the balcony, a young woman began singing a lament.
    'Well, that's brought the mood down and no mistake!' grumbled Harry.  'What was that all about?'
    'It was the story of the Little Mermaid.  The Hans Andersen fairy-tale, about the sea princess who becomes human to woo a prince but is doomed to die if he marries someone else.  Not exactly a favourite with us feminists!'
    'What's that got to do with Stoke?'
    'Nothing.  No more than an electric samba band.  It fits with the theme of the performance, I suppose - Something in the Water.'
    Harry scowled.  'That's the trouble with these arty events.  They're all put together by blow-ins from out of town who know nothing about local culture.'
    'What local culture is that then?'  Daphne bit back, smarting at the blow-ins reference.  'An out-of-key chorus of Delilah in a football ground named after a telephone betting chain?  You know perfectly well there's more to it than that, and that your culture is made by born-and-bred Stokies and the people who've moved here.  That Northern Soul show you had on the radio driving in, for instance - it's local culture all right, but with Black American roots, and the gems in your Staffordshire Hoard are from all over the known world.'
    'Give over with the equal ops lecture, woman!' Harry sighed.  'I aren't getting at you.  It's just all this weird stuff will go over the heads of ordinary folk.  And it's all going on Up 'Anley, as usual.  It's about time they took these things out to Bentilee or the Abbey, Fegg Hayes or Blurton.  What do you reckon those lasses outside the bingo hall are making of this funny bloke in the dressing gown?  And what the fook is he up to now?  It looks like he's stripping off!'   
    'Mind your language, pet - there's bairns about!'
    'They didn't think of that when they included this lad.  If it weren't for that shell, he'd be leaving nothing to the imagination!'
    The performer was standing on a classical plinth wearing a white body-stocking, a wreath of gold leaves on his head and a gold scallop shell at his groin.  Another man, dressed as a butler, seemed to be inserting a hose into his bottom.
    'That'll get the attention of your ladies by the bingo hall, pet!' laughed Daphne, as a stream of water jetted from the shell.  Moments later, fountains were erupting from the golden crown and from the man's outstretched arms as well.
    'Well, that's different,' Harry remarked.  'I conner manage that, even on seven pints of Titanic!'
   'Do shut up being snarky.  They're building up to the finale.  Don't you think that's rather beautiful?'
    The man on the plinth had stopped spouting water and stood with his head bowed.  Dancers in white with pale umbrellas fluttered around him.  Against the darkening sky and blue-toned projections, they luminesced under a shy crescent moon, peeping between the clouds.
    'I suppose so, duck.'
    Daphne frowned at him.  'You'll never win if you cannot be more enthusiastic than that, man!'
    'Why does it matter to you if we do?  I'd have thought you'd be set against pouring money into this when essential public services are being cut.'
    Daphne watched the strange tableau before them.  The almost ghostly figures, fountains behind and around them and streaming from their fingertips.  Wasn't it all an extravagance this city couldn't afford?  The City of Six Towns was an outsider for the accolade anyway.  The cost of this show alone would probably employ a couple of social workers for a year, or keep a Children's Centre open, or even secure her own post and that of several colleagues.  On the other hand, what was life without art, laughter and fireworks?  Why shouldn't there be enough for both in a rich, first world country - even in Stoke-on-Trent?
    'We cannot have Sunderland winning it, pet.  I'd be mortified.  I have to do whatever I can to stop that!  Stoke can do it.  It just doesn't know it yet.  So you sometimes need outsiders like me to tell you how much beauty and talent you have here.'
    Harry bent forward and kissed her, just as the first of the fireworks ignited.  She jumped, accidently smacking him on the nose.
    'If you say so, duck,'  He put his arm around her shoulder.  'I'll back this bid.  I saw what happened in Hull, though.  If the buggers think I'm taking all my kit off and letting someone paint me blue in the name of art, they're very much mistaken!' 
     

*If you haven't met Daphne and Harry yet, the Kindle version of "Grand Union" is free today.

Catching Up (Part 4) - A Progressive Alliance

Another little short story from the Solent Welfare Rights Project and their allies, as some of them contemplate an early General Election...

    'Put the TV on,' Martin Connolly instructed the priest.  'There's something big happening.'

    'It's a little early yet, son, and we don't usually put it on at lunchtime anyway.'  Father Cornelius remained unflustered, despite the adviser's sharp tone.  'I prefer people to chat with each other or be allowed to sit and eat in peace.'

    'But May's supposed to be making an important announcement,' Martin argued.  'There's speculation that she's calling a snap election.'

    'She can't be doing that,' Father Cornelius answered patiently.  'They passed a law to stop it and she's said, time and again, that there won't be one.'

    Nevertheless, he switched on the television in the lounge corner, where people waited for their turn to 'shop' at the Foodbank when it was busy.  The picture was indeed of a podium outside 10 Downing Street but there was no sign yet of the Prime Minister.

    'Something good on, nipper?' asked Terry Walker, pausing on his way to the storeroom with a little trolley stacked with plastic crates.

    'Martin says Herself is after calling an election.'

    'We're having one in a couple of weeks already, aren't we?' Terry said.  'Paula and the kids have been out leafleting for something or another, anyway.'

    'That's the Local Elections,' Martin explained.  'This is a General Election.' 

    'Right,' said Terry.

    'A chance to get the Tory's out and stop this Hard Brexit bullshit!' Martin insisted.

    'Right,' said Terry again.

    To Martin's amazement, Terry shrugged and shuffled away to the storeroom without waiting to see what Theresa May actually had to say.

    'Well, I suppose we should be grateful that it wasn't the Four Minute Warning, with the way things are in the world right now.'

    Mike Walker reached out and switched off the radio in the site hut as a gentle cue for the Construction Co-operative workers to finish their teas and return to their tools.  Despite the news and its implications, he couldn't help smiling at the makeshift poster John 'Johnno' Jones had stuck on the cabin wall.  It was a screenshot from an advert of a massively built woman with frizzy red hair wearing a hard hat, high-vis vest and safety boots with the words She's So MoneySupermarket! printed underneath.  Mike hoped Sally Archer would see the funny side when she returned from her honeymoon. 

    Despite her size and the flaming red hair, the big woman in the advert didn't really look like Sally, although the strapline certainly worked.  Sally had  recycled a surprising amount of her wedding and improvised the rest, arriving in a horse-drawn carriage revealed as a made-over Traveller's pony racing cart by its rubber tyres, in a vintage dress that once belonged to one of her numerous Irish aunties which had gained an extra 300mm of lace around the hem and almost the same to the sleeves.  Wedding guests and Foodbank 'guests' mixed at a reception in the Community Café, munching samosas and wedding cake and dancing to a scratch ensemble lead by brickie Joe Lennon, who styled themselves The Blacklisted Beatles.  It had been a delightfully artless, somewhat anarchic celebration. 

    'Who do you reckon you'll vote for, Mike?' 

    John Archer, who had been a proud if sometimes bemused father-of-the bride, rose to his feet rather stiffly.  Only a couple of years from retirement, he was clearly finding the contortions required in his trade a challenge.

    'That's a tricky one.  I guess it'll have to be the LibDems.'

    'They sold us out to the Tories in twenty-ten.  And they're against Brexit.'  

    Despite working happily alongside a couple of colleagues from the EU, John had voted 'out'.  Mike, firmly in the Remain camp, decided against rerunning that debate.

    'I know but they're still the only party that can beat them in this seat.'   

    'Chip said that.'  John always referred to his daughter by her nickname.  'Last time she voted Green and I voted Labour, but she said we ought to have voted tactically and that if we all had, the Tory woman wouldn't have got in.' 

    'She's right, in a way,' said Mike.  'If I voted with my heart, I'd probably do the same as she did.'

    'Really?'  John's expression suggested he thought Green politics was for youthful idealists, still his perception of his astute and practical daughter, rather than for working men.

    'Absolutely.  I've got my children's future to think of.'  They were growing up so fast.  Even little Sophie was at school now.  'The problem is, what if the UKIP vote goes to the Tories?'

    'I can't see that, mate.  Most of the blokes I know who voted UKIP were Labour men before.'

    'Will they be this time, though?'

    John Archer shrugged.  'Buggered if I know, nipper.' 

    'That's so unfair!'

    Shane Walker had divided his Easter holidays between revising for his GCSEs, gaming with his friends and leafleting for the Labour Party with his mum, sister and, occasionally, his Dad.  Mum's Borough Council seat wasn't being contested this year but the neighbouring two were and Mum seemed to think they were in with a chance of winning at least one of them, as there was a block of student flats in it.

    'She's a Tory,' said his mother, turning the car engine on again and preparing to pull out of the Co-op carpark.  'Of course it's unfair.  She knows we've spent most of our funds and energy fighting this election so we'll struggle to find the resources to fight another one so soon.  If we can stop fighting each other, that is.'

    'I mean it's unfair that she's called it now when I'm still too young to vote!  It was meant to happen after I was eighteen!'  Politics was like everything else; Shane felt like an adult but got treated like a child, with other people - his parents, his teachers and politicians - making decisions about his future and shaping his life for him.  He was going to say 'fuck' but knew his mother would tell him off if he did.

    'I know, Shane,' said his mum.  'It was the same for me in nineteen-ninety seven.  I wanted to vote then, but I was too young.'

    'We still won.'  Shane felt that his denied vote was more crucial this time around.  'Can we win this time, Mum?'

    His mother didn't answer straight away, then she said, 'I don't know.'

    'Is Jeremy Corbyn really crap, or is it just the media putting him down all the time?'

    'What do you think?'

    She had always encouraged him to think for himself but Shane knew she was a fan of the party's elderly leader and didn't want to upset her.

    'I think he is a bit crap sometimes,' he started, cautiously. 'Like when he reads out questions from people.  They're good questions, sometimes, but he lets the Tories wriggle out of answering them properly.  He reminds me of Mr Garton, my maths teacher.  He tries to treat the kids like grown-ups, but the idiots in the class take the piss and Garton has no idea how to handle them.' 

    'So you think he should be more aggressive?' asked Shane's mum, presumably meaning Jeremy Corbyn not Mr Garton.

    'Not like rude-aggressive.  He needs to be tougher, but in a good way.'

    'Is he a poor teacher?'

    Shane was surprised at that question.  He'd thought they were still talking about politics.

    'No, he's alright.  He's got a way of explaining stuff that I get.  I should get a B in it.'

    'So is the problem Mr Garton, or the kids that don't want to learn?'

    'I suppose it's the bad kids, really.'

    'So what do you and your mates do when the bad kids give him a hard time?'

    Shane could have lied but his mother wasn't stupid.  'We laugh.'

    'Don't you think that encourages the bad kids?'

    'Yeah, but...'

    'Rather than improving your own chances of getting the grades you need?'

    'I suppose...'

    'So you're making life difficult for a decent man and spoiling your own chances rather than standing up against the bullies?'

    'You don't understand!'  It wasn't fair.  He was helping her and, instead of being grateful, she was giving him a hard time about school.

    'I'm not getting at you, Shaney.  I'm answering your question about Jeremy Corbyn.'

    'Uh?'

    It took Shane all of the drive home to work out what she meant. 

Catching Up (Part 3) - Training Day

Another 'where are they now?' short story with the Social Insecurity characters.  In case anyone thought Local Government Officers all have cushy jobs for life...

    Richard Parker had been disappointed rather than surprised when he received his redundancy notice.  His post had been created to guide the council through "Welfare Reform" and, with the introduction of the full digital service of Universal Credit in their area due for July, most of the councillors and senior officers believed that story was now almost over.  Richard, who sincerely believed it would prove to be the start of a new nightmare to compound all that had gone before, had failed to persuade them otherwise. 
    Graciously, his director had given him the formal notification a couple of weeks early.
    'You'll probably want to start looking for jobs soon,' he said.  'With the new financial year starting, there will be more opportunities now than later.' 

    As Richard listened to Hilary Carrington rounding up her training session on that week's changes to benefits for families, he could feel the letter, folded back into its envelope in the breast pocket of his jacket, pressing lightly against his chest.

    A similar letter sat unopened in Andy Burrows' in-tray.  Andy had arrived late, just in time for the training day, after dropping his four kids at their child-minders.  Easter holidays were expensive if both of the Burrows had to work.

    'Is that what I think it is?' he had asked.

    'Yes,' said Richard.

    'I'll open it later.'

    Andy had been anticipating his redundancy even sooner, with the closure of the council's emergency financial support scheme at the start of the year.  However they had kept him on, at Richard's request, supposedly to support Frances Sherborne, the Principal Housing Benefits Officer, as she took over the management of Discretionary Housing Payments.  Richard's hope had been that, working with Andy, she might soften her decidedly flinty attitude to benefit claimants.  The jury was still out on the efficacy of that plan.

    Richard had inadvertently seated himself close to the refreshments table so, when Hilary called a coffee break, he was the first in line.  Diplomatically, he stood back to allow Councillor Paula Walker access to the urn ahead of him.  Three years into her term of office, having won her seat with a resounding victory following the resignation of disgraced former UKIP incumbent Gerry Matthews, she was bright, principled and in-touch with the issues impacting on her constituents.  Richard liked her.  He couldn't help thinking that she would have made a formidable Opposition leader, had the Labour group consisted of more than herself and dear old Margaret Sims.  Instead, an unsteady alliance of the Tories and UKIP stared enviously across the chamber at a resurgent LibDem administration that somehow contrived to be keener on cuts than its predecessors.  None of their members had put in an appearance at today's information event, despite his courteous invitation.

    'This is going to be absolutely horrendous,' Richard said to Paula.  'I bet most of the families who'll be affected don't even know it yet.'

    'I know they don't,' said the councillor.  'I was advising a woman yesterday who wanted to know about childcare costs and tax credits.  She's pregnant and her partner's recently left her.  She'd read up about her rights online, knew all about the Benefit Cap and had worked out she'd be hit when her baby's born next month, but had no idea that she wouldn't get any extra tax credits for him, in or out of work, because she has two kids already.  She couldn't believe there wasn't any "right thing" she could do.'

    'Not without a condom and a Tardis, at any rate.'  Andy Burrows' long arm reached round to splash too much milk into a cup of weak tea.

    'That's what's so unfair,' Paula continued, dunking a custard cream.  'She and her partner were both working in good jobs when the baby was conceived.  Back then, she couldn't possibly have known she'd be a lone parent now.  This policy isn't encouraging responsibility, it's punishing bad luck.'

    Richard filled his cup and, having missed breakfast, snatched a couple of bourbons.  He thought he caught a look of reproach from Frances.  They shuffled through the throng of housing officers, social workers and others, away from the table and the temptation of more biscuits.

    'I'm not against encouraging people to be responsible,' the housing benefits officer said.  'I mean, none of us had our children expecting the state to pay for them, did we?'

    'But we knew it would be there for them if we fell on hard times,' Andy replied.  'Social security - it did exactly what it said on the tin!'

    'There's also no statistical evidence that families on benefits have larger families than those who aren't,' Richard pointed out.  'So this is a measure to tackle a problem that doesn't actually exist.'

    'Which creates new problems,' Paula explained.  'Because the best way of providing for your three or four children in a crisis is now to split up your family, packing off half the kids to dad or grandma, which separates them from their mum and siblings...'

    'Increasing the likelihood that social services will need to intervene to support the family,' Richard continued.

    'Messing up their schooling by moving them in and out of care...' added Andy.

    'And increasing the chances that they will fail educationally, end up in low-paid work and rely on benefits in later life,' Richard concluded. 

    'Even if you believe that some women have kids to get benefits, this punishes the kids,' Paula said, not waiting for Frances to cut in with that suggestion.

    'And it's local authorities who will have to pick up the pieces, one way or another' said Richard.  He saw his wife, a senior social worker, making her way towards them.  'Just ask Beth.'

   Frances didn't seem too keen to do that.  She muttered something about checking in with her deputy and slipped away.

    'I hope you haven't all been bullying her,' Beth said.  'If you're too aggressive, she'll get entrenched in her views.  Didn't you learn anything from bringing up Suzanne?'

    Richard laughed.  Beth had a point.  He would never have expected that petulant teenager to turn her life and studies around and realise her long-hidden dream of studying medicine, though it didn't help his blood pressure to think too hard about the mountain of debt she was incurring to do so.

    'What I learnt is that you can never tell how things might turn out,' he said gently, feeling the folded envelope pressing against his chest.  He had yet to show it to Beth.  'The worst situation can sometimes turn out for the best in the end.'

    'Or you could get knocked down by a bus tomorrow!' quipped Andy.

    'If you're anticipating being knocked down by a bus, Andy, you would be better doing so tonight rather than tomorrow, at least if you want to make the best financial provision for Jayne and the children,' Hilary advised soberly, overhearing their conversation as she queued for her coffee.  'As you'll see, when we look at changes to bereavement benefits, they'll have Widowed Parent's Allowance until the younger twins leave education on today's regulations or Bereavement Payment for eighteen months as of tomorrow.'
    'Seriously?'  Andy looked horrified.
    'I'm afraid so.  Things aren't just getting worse at the cradle; they're equally as nasty when it comes to the grave.'  
    'Ask not for whom the bell tolls...!' sighed Beth.
    Richard decided this was as good a time as any to share his news.  He reached into his pocket.

Catching Up (part 2) - Call the Benefits Specialist!

Another snippet of news from some old friends enjoying a quiet Sunday evening. 
Not that Hilary would appreciate being called 'old', of course!

    'Oh bother!'

    'What's wrong, my love?'  Tom Appleby looked up from his book, anxious to know the cause of his wife's displeasure.

    She was reading the listings guide from the Observer.   'I forgot Call the Midwife finished last week,' she said sadly.  'It's the wretched Antiques Roadshow instead.'

    'I thought you liked that too?'

    'Not really.  I tried to watch the last couple of seasons because I thought it would help me understand Jessica's line of work a little better, before I realised she likes to chat to me about completely different things when we go out and not to talk shop at all.'

    'You enjoyed watching when greedy people clutching their trinkets and baubles were being told they were next-to worthless!'

    'I'm afraid that did rather bring out the mean-spirited side of my nature.'

    'That's not being mean-spirited, my love,' Tom assured her.  'That's your strong sense of social justice coming through!' 

    Tom, who was squeamish about medical matters and had assigned Sunday nights to bread-making, knew well what appealed to Hilary about her post-war drama - the combination of strong female characters, progressive storylines which challenged discrimination and disadvantage, and the steady march of social progress. 

    'They ought to make a modern-day version,' Hilary said.  'They would have to call it Fund the Midwife!'

    Tom gave a wry smile.  'It seems to me that, while the BBC is happy enough confronting poverty in the past, it's not so eager to shine a light on the real causes today.  They're leaving that to poor old Ken Loach.  Talking of which, did I tell you that Paula Walker's hired the Community Café for a free screening of I, Daniel Blake next Tuesday?  Father Cornelius has asked me if I wouldn't mind making up a big pot of curry and some snacks for the audience.'

    'Would you like me to help, Tom darling?'

    'If you don't mind watching it again.'

    'I don't mind at all,  It's a super film, though very sad.  Poor Daniel reminds me of Daphne's dad.'

    'You won't get upset again?'  Tom remembered frantically searching his pockets for a handkerchief when he and Hilary had been to see it in the cinema.

    'Only when that silly adviser says they're definitely going to win.  We would never...!'

    'I know, my love.'  None of the Solent Welfare Rights Project's workers took tribunal outcomes for granted, either for good or ill.  'Mind you, you've been on a winning streak with your PIP cases.'

    'That's because the quality of assessments and decision-making is so lamentably poor.  Mr Ellis didn't even call us into the hearing room for one last week - the panel simply approved what we had submitted was the correct award.  I was so relieved, after talking Mrs Forsyth into attending in person.  She was terrified of "going to court" but, in the event, she didn't have to say a word.'

    'I've half a mind to pitch an idea to the BBC,' Tom said thoughtfully.  'Rather than another medical drama to replace your nuns and nurses, since we've already got Casualty and Holby, they should commission a series set in a benefits advice centre.  They'd have all the right ingredients.' 

    'In what sense?' Hilary queried.  'We might have an eccentric old priest around the place these days, but there aren't any nuns!'

    'But there is a diverse cast of central characters, each with their own stories to explore throughout the series.  There's also a new central storyline for every week, following the trials and tribulations of a particular client - which could be your Mrs Forsyth appealing her PIP, or young Mike Delbridge being done for shop-lifting while he waited for his Universal Credit to come through, or Tracy Craven trying to balance the books on the lower Benefit Cap - and there's even a bigger picture narrative around so-called Welfare Reform, rather like the development of the NHS in Call the Midwife.'

    'Except for us, the story isn't how something wonderful was built.  It seems to be more about the dismantling of the Social Security system.  I'm afraid it would be more like a mini-series version of I, Daniel Blake, only without the dry humour and Geordie accents.  It might be really rather depressing.'

    'Isn't resistance to tyranny always worthy of a saga?'

    Hilary tilted her head proudly.  'I suppose it is,' she answered.  'It's the final part of that alternative history SS-GB drama tonight.  Perhaps you should pitch you script for that slot instead?'

    'Fair point, my love.  Young Martin's vocabulary isn't exactly family entertainment!'   Tom caught Hilary's eye and smiled.  'Mind you, if you fancy an early night, we might be distinctly post-watershed ourselves...?' 

    'Scoundrel!' she replied.

Catching up (part 1) - Age of Uncertainty

In case you've been wondering how the 'welfare rights lit' gang are getting on, here's the first of a few short stories looking at how they are now...

    'Here we go again, Lyn love.'

    Terry Walker slumped onto the settee next to his wife's armchair before handing her the day's one non-glossy piece of post.

    'It might just be the annual uprating letter, luvvie...'

    As soon as she unfolded the dull, greyish paper from the brown envelope, Lyn knew it wasn't.  She had been volunteering at the Solent Welfare Rights Project for over three years and, in the past year, had become very used to reading letters like this to other people.  She had known for a while that there would be one for her too and, one day, for Terry.  She was still upset.

    'Bugger!'

    She and Hilary had first run through the activities and the descriptors for Personal Independence Payment together, soon after Lyn started doing advice work.  Lyn paid close attention, especially when Hilary explained that one day almost everyone getting Disability Living Allowance - DLA - would have to make a claim for Personal Independence Payment, or PIP, instead.

    'Even if they've got their DLA for life?'

    'I'm afraid so, Lyn.  Unless you were sixty-five or over on 8th April 2013, you'll be invited to claim PIP.'

    During the difficult year of her appeal, against an unjustified accusation of benefit fraud, Lyn had learned a great deal about the assessment of her DLA.  Whereas once she had believed she got that because she had a permanent spinal injury, she had come to realise that it wasn't the nature of her disability that mattered, it was how it affected her ability to look after herself and to get around.  After no end of trouble, a tribunal had eventually decided that she reasonably required attention in connection with her bodily functions frequently, throughout the day, which entitled her to the middle rate for care.  At the time, she was told she had this indefinitely.  They had also declared her virtually unable to walk and so eligible for the higher rate for mobility.  That was an indefinite award too.  She and Terry had opted to use the latter for a Motability car; it was only a couple of months since their nice new Vauxhall Corsa had arrived.  She often teased Terry that he spent more time polishing it than driving it, but it enabled he and Lyn to do their shopping, socialising and volunteering.  Terry, who said he had no head for rules and regulations, spent a couple of mornings gently pottering about making up parcels for the customers of the Community Café's Food Bank while Lyn saw her clients.

    It was only when the team had been talking about pension changes and Hilary had remarked that she would have to work until she was sixty-six, that Lyn realised she wouldn't get her pension at sixty either.  That would mean six extra years of being assessed for Employment and Support Allowance, or whatever it was by then.  Everything kept changing.  It wasn't fair.

    Although Lyn hadn't asked directly about her entitlement, she soon knew enough about PIP to be able to make a rough self-assessment.  PIP used a points system to decide if you qualified and what you got.  Lyn was fairly confident she would score four points for needing assistance to cook a main meal, as she couldn't lift hot pans or dishes safely with one hand while holding a stick or the worktop for balance with the other.  She needed aids and appliances to manage her toilet needs and to shower, which would get her two points each - enough for the same rate of PIP for daily living as she got in DLA - although Toby had been saying something about an Upper Tribunal decision on bathing and showering which might give her extra points over that, because she couldn't use a bath.    She wasn't clear where the case law had got to on dressing and undressing, which she had to do sitting down; at one point, her bed would have counted as an aid for that but when Tom had been checking one of her advice letters, he had suggested she rephrase what she had written about this to make her client's two points for this activity less certain.  But she often needed Terry's help to put on her socks or tights, so perhaps there were still points due for that. 

    She managed her own medication, still took responsibility for most of the bills and, since starting her voluntary work, had gained enough confidence that engaging with other people, even strangers, now came as second nature to her.  Overall, she should be no worse off on the personal care side.  She might even gain a little.  She wasn't confident enough of that to initiate a new claim without waiting to be invited to do so and anyway, on the mobility side, things were a lot less certain.  Certainly, none of the planning and following a journey descriptors applied to her.  Physically, when it came to stand and move, some days were better than others.  Using her crutches, she estimated she would still have been up to walking round to Susan's, if Susan still lived in her old house.  She could park right outside the Community Café but the building was quite big inside and, by the time she reached her desk, opposite Deepak and next to Jenny, she would probably have walked over twenty metres.  It was a little further still if she went straight to the ladies, and she didn't actually stop to rest on the way, though whether she could do that repeatedly was open to question.  That was likely to be the crux of the case.  Just as she and her colleagues advised their clients, she would have to test herself over the next couple of weeks, before the form was due back, and make a judgement based on that.

    'I'll make a start on that tonight, if there's nothing good on TV,' she told her husband.  'I don't expect there is.'

    Terry picked up the paper and thumbed through to the entertainment pages.

    'Britain on the Fiddle,' he said.  'Richard Bilton joins the investigators chasing Britain's benefit cheats.'

    'More poverty porn!' snapped Lyn.  'Bastards!'

    'You're starting to sound like young Martin!' laughed Terry. 

    'Now I do his kind of work, I can see why he swears,' Lyn replied.  'It's programmes like that which allow the Government to get away with all this!'  She brandished her form at him before stuffing it in the plastic bag on the handle of her chair where the important papers for her attention went.

    'You'll help me with mine when it comes, won't you?' Terry asked.

    'Of course I will, luvvie.'

    Lyn already knew that Terry would get nothing when he was reassessed.  She had run the sums for him even before she had considered her own likely score.  She hadn't the heart to tell him.