Chapter One - Café Culture

That thing I blogged about yesterday - a reunion with the cast of Severe Discomfort etc, as they are right now, facing the same issues challenging benefit claimants and advisers up and down the UK.  Contains spoilers if you haven't read the previous Welfare Right Lit stories, starting with this one
   

Wednesday 1^st November 2017

‘How are we doing with the cottage pie, Thomas?’

They were busy again today, as they had been all week after the half-term lull.  Father Cornelius always tried to choose the least popular dish of the day, sparing the more popular options for the Community Café’s other customers, but all four of the giant rectangular serving dishes were showing more aluminium than was healthy so soon after opening.

‘I reckon I can spare you a helping of that, Father,’ said the chef.  ‘The veggie lasagne’s top today and the chicken chasseur’s doing well too.  The regulars are steering clear of the lamb biryani, though, if you fancy a plateful.  I’m not sure they trust me after the mix up with the chillies last week.’

‘That chickpea dhal was a little lively.  Having said that, it saw that nasty cold I had off in double-quick time.  Perhaps you should share the recipe with Boots the Chemist?’  The priest hesitated between the safe and the potentially fiery.  ‘Go on, then, son.  I’ll risk another dose of curry!’

Tom Appleby smiled and heaped a generous pile of turmeric-tinted rice and curried vegetables onto a plate.  ‘There’s a bowl of yogurt and a ladle by the knives and forks,’ he said.  ‘And, if that doesn’t cool it down, the fire officer tested the extinguishers on Monday.’

‘May God have mercy on your bowels, Father!’

Martin Connolly, one of the senior staff from the adjacent Solent Welfare Rights Project, ordered a small helping of the casserole.

‘You’re not feeling adventurous yourself?’

‘I’ve got two tribunals this afternoon.  Seismic farts don’t win appeals!’

‘I didn’t think you needed anything much more sophisticated to get a PIP decision overturned these days,’ Tom teased.

‘Just because the assessments are bollocks and the decisions are shite, we’re not guaranteed a win,’ Martin argued.  ‘But there is an element of fish-in-a-barrel about most of them.’

‘Maybe Thomas will put that on the menu for Friday,’ joked the priest, who was too used to Martin’s profane turn of phrase to be offended by it.  ‘May I join you, son?’

‘No worries.’

Father Cornelius and Martin carried their meals to a sun-dappled table by the window, joining the two women already seated there.  Velma Jones and Frances Fairbrother were Social Workers and lunched regularly at the Community Café.  They further supported it by buying meal vouchers in advance and at full price, which funded free food for others.  When the café had been set up as an add-on to the foodbank, donations of surplus stock and best before yesterday provisions from local stores had more than covered the cost of feeding the destitute.  Funds raised from bought meals had paid for little extras; a children’s Christmas party, a coach trip to the beach for families and, for the last couple of years, a winter night-shelter.  The advice centre staff had urged the churches team to be cautious about this and, in the first year, they had employed a couple of professional staff to kept it strictly dry and drug-free.  The committee didn’t think they could afford the paid workers the following year and all responsibilities had fallen to volunteers, with decidedly mixed results. 

Looking around the room, the priest could see several familiar faces from last winter.  A cold snap was forecast, starting that weekend.  He hoped, for their sakes, that the café crew would raise the extra funds and at least recruit enough volunteers to open up again. 

‘Winter is coming,’ said Martin, noticing the same whiskery chins and weary frowns.

Despite having a young family to care for, the lad had put in a few voluntary night-shifts the previous year.  He was a good person to have on the team, having the strength of personality to enforce the strict dry-house rules.  Some nights, when the helpers had been more soft-hearted, Father Cornelius had feared he might have to call the police; on a few other occasions, he was afraid they might arrive unannounced.

While Martin and the social workers discussed the serial his remark had referenced, the father took a long look at the other diners.  He recognised many of them.  At the next table, apparently arguing about football with his companion, was Joe Lennon, one of the older construction workers renovating the block of empty shops across the street, a proud Liverpudlian and occasional attendee at mass.  Father Cornelius didn’t think he had seen the other man before.  He was a plump fellow in late middle age with curly, greying hair and square-rimmed glasses that didn’t really suit him.  He looked like a down-at-heel accountant.

Lyn and Terry Walker were tucking into paid-for cottage pie in their usual place near the door to the Welfare Rights Project’s offices, where there was plenty of space for Lyn to manoeuvre.  She worked most Wednesday mornings, helping the advice centre’s customers with disability benefit claims.  In the last couple of years, she had started attending tribunals too.  Whatever Tom might say about the relative simplicity of winning PIP cases, there was nothing easy about representing for Lyn.  She could barely walk, getting about only with the aid of crutches even on her good days and, occasionally, having to use a wheelchair.  That wasn’t all; before joining the team as a volunteer, she had been through several gruelling tribunals as the appellant.

On his own admission, her husband Terry didn’t have the brains for benefits work.  He didn’t really have the brawn for helping in the foodbank warehouse either, but he was slow and sure when it came to wheeling the provisions in and out, and good at keeping food with the same use-by date together and in order.  He kept a paternalistic eye on a couple of youths doing community service with the project, while they did the heavy lifting.  He’d been against letting them loose in the storeroom at first but gradually become quite fond of ‘the nippers’, as he called them.

The group sitting at the next table along had got to know each other through having to access the charitable meals available.  Father Cornelius knew many of his free-mealers almost as well as the staff and supporters.  He got the same stories when he sat with them that they had told their advice workers, shared with their GP or sobbed to their social worker.  There were some in long-term need of a healthy hot meal, like Frank Harper; he was waiting for a date for an appeal against a ‘fit for work’ decision, getting by on hardship payments of Jobseeker’s Allowance while his rising bedroom tax rent arrears sucked him ever closer to possession proceedings.  Karen Dawson’s Income Support was riddled by so many direct deductions she ran out of money halfway through the second week of each fortnight.  While her Tax Credits kept her first two children in food and paid the bills, there had been no increase when baby Tyler was born that summer.  The Project gave her repeat vouchers, so she could eat here when the elder kids were in school.  Without them, she might have drifted back to her ex-husband, his vicious temper and handy fists.  Vince Jardine was an ex-offender who slipped off the waggon spectacularly now and again.  Megan Pothecary was waiting for another referral into a drug rehab project.  Den Green, midway through another thirteen-week sanction, had only confessed his full story to the priest; the others knew that he had misused cocaine for a surprisingly long time, for someone still alive and well, but they didn’t know why.

These characters had been in and out of the café regularly all summer.  However, in the past few months, there had been many new faces.  There were people in their early sixties, sick and angry with hunger, who couldn’t believe they were still expected to be available for work after a lifetime of hard graft.   There were young workers on casual contracts who said they were worse off, due to insecurity, than they had been on the dole.  There were migrant workers, caught between jobs with no access to benefits.  There were homeless people, men and women.

There were families too now.  That was new.  In previous years, only the politically committed had brought their children to eat at the café while the poor had hidden this grim truth from their kids.  Most still tried to, hence the fall in numbers around holiday time, but increasing numbers were getting too desperate to keep up the pretence.  Paula, who managed the hot meals service, had started putting a children’s meal on the menu every day.  Since the summer holidays, they had regularly run out of the freshly prepared option.  Asda had bailed them out with some microwave-friendly standbys. 

‘Is it tomorrow you’re interviewing?’ Father Cornelius asked Martin, when the social workers went up to the counter for cake or dessert.

‘It is.  It’ll be a long day.  We’ve short-listed six candidates.’

‘That’s a fair number.  I wouldn’t have thought there would be so many people knowledgeable about your line looking for a part-time job.’

‘I’m not sure they are looking for part-time,’ said Martin.  ‘They’re looking for anything.  Since the Legal Aid cuts and with Local Government austerity still biting, there are unemployed and under-employed advisers everywhere, plus housing benefit and jobcentre staff who’ve been laid off.  We’re spoilt for choice.  A rookie, like I was when I started here, wouldn’t get a look in now!’

‘Is that so?’  Father Cornelius didn’t doubt the lad’s words, but it seemed ridiculous to him that, with so many changes and challenges to the Social Security system, there weren’t plenty of opportunities for people who could help.

‘I wouldn’t even get shortlisted,’ Martin confirmed.

‘That’s a little sad, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but with the post only funded for a year, we need someone who can hit the ground running.’

‘I’d forgotten it was for such a short time.’

Martin looked quizzically at the priest.  ‘We couldn’t offer it for longer even if we wanted to, could we?’ he reminded him. 

‘I know, son.’  He was already gathering information to make the case for another tranche of Big Lottery funding, aided particularly by Hilary, the Project’s veteran adviser, and Vaughan James, a volunteer with a history in legal practice.  It was their main source of funding and, in less than a year, was due to come to an end.  They had been blessed to get five years of support; there was no guarantee of more.

‘Must go,’ said Martin.  He took his empty plate back to the counter and disappeared back into the advice area, presumably to grab his bag and files.

‘What can we do to keep you here, Martin?’ the priest said quietly to himself.  ‘And Hilary, Lyn, Vaughan, Toby and Deepak.  Not to mention Paula, Terry, Tom, Gavin, Ade, Iveta, Sharon, Dennis and Joy.  Whatever can we do?  What can I do?’

He was used to the fact that little prayers like this didn’t seem to be answered all that clearly, but it helped him to settle his mind to problems and to focus on finding a way out of them.

Father Cornelius was still pondering over his biryani when the main door opened and a tall figure in sage green overalls and a red hard hat strode in. 

‘I hope you’re not keeping my best bricky from his work for nothing, Fishy!’ scolded Sally Archer, albeit light-heartedly.

‘It’s alright, gaffer,’ Joe answered cheerfully.  ‘Me and our Gary were comparing notes about a couple more firms before he sets off.’

‘My train’s due in twenty minutes.  I’d better go.’  The auditor-looking fellow got to his feet.

‘Be careful out there!’ Sally ordered.

She and the man shared a high-five, which almost catapulted him into the remains of Lennon’s dinner.

‘Are you having pud, Joe?’ asked Sally.

‘Dead right I am.  They’ve got apple crumble and custard.’

‘Grab me one too, mate.’  She fished a crumpled voucher out of her pocket.

‘You not having a dinner, boss?’

‘Not right now.  I fancy something sweet.’  She took her hard hat off and ran her long, slightly-grubby fingers through her long ginger hair.  ‘I need a sugar rush!’

When Joe went up to the counter, she turned to the priest.

‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘It has been better, my dear,’ he asked.  ‘If I’m honest, when I signed up to do God’s work, I didn’t expect there to be quite so much of it!’

‘Dan’s dad said they were interviewing for a new adviser tomorrow.  That’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘It would be, if they didn’t actually have need of three or four of them.’

‘I hope they get someone good.  It’s excellent working with this team!’  She turned her hat over in her mortar-scratched hands.  ‘I miss it, sometimes.’

‘I didn’t know you used to work here?’  Father Cornelius had only ever known Sally as the organising force behind the Construction Co-operative - and Tom Appleby’s daughter-in-law.

‘It was years ago now.  That’s how I know all the gang here – and Fishy.’

‘The accountant?’

Sally laughed.  ‘He’s not an accountant.  He’s a private detective.  He’s doing some work for Joe and the Union, investigating black-listing in our industry.  He’s not always that good at his job but he’s better doing this than his old one.’

‘Did he used to work here, then?’

‘Here?  You are joking!’ she laughed.  ‘He used to be a DWP Fraud Officer!’  

‘Is that so?  Did they make him redundant?’

‘He wishes!’  Sally wrinkled her big nose.  ‘I’m not going to tell you what happened, Father but, if he joins your church one day, brace yourself for one hell of a confession!’

Sally’s co-worker returned to the table with two huge helpings of apple crumble, both drowned in custard.  While strapping Sally seemed to have the capacity for such a dish, Father Cornelius wondered where the lean Liverpudlian put it in his wiry frame, especially after a big dollop of cottage pie.  The dessert did look delicious.  He considered treating himself to a portion of the same.  He glanced at his watch.  It was almost twelve-thirty.  He had another job to do first.  Perhaps there would be a little left when he got back.

‘Have a nice afternoon,’ he said to Sally and Joe.

‘Bless you, Father!’ said the bricky, through a mouthful of crumble.

Father Cornelius weaved his way through the tables and guests, past the busy counter where Councillor Paula Walker now held sway, holding the fort while Tom and assistant chef Velma improvised an extra dish and volunteer Eddie dealt with the emergency washing up.

At the back of the café was the storeroom.  A stack of red plastic crates sat by the back door, loaded with tins and packets of food, cartons of UHT milk and the last of the eating apples from the presbytery orchard.  You could never tell how busy you were going to be in a new foodbank distribution centre, especially in a rural location.  It made sense to take more than you were likely to need, just in case.

‘Are we ready to go, Terry?’

‘Just about, Father.  The van’s out the front, if you want me to tell the nippers to load up?’  The man looked slightly embarrassed as he added another box to the stack.  ‘Old Lyn suggested we take these too.’

It was a collection of toiletries and women’s sanitary products.

‘She’s a very practical lady, your wife,’ the priest remarked approvingly.

‘Your right about that,’ agreed Terry.  ‘I’m a lucky old bugger!’

An Even Worse Idea than Universal Credit? Let's Give it a Try!

Last week, I made a rash undertaking to have a go at NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - and, in response to a request from a fan of the Welfare Rights Lit books, agreed the one-month book would be set at the Solent Welfare Rights Project. 

This was a daft thing to pledge to do since, at that point, I hadn't quite finished my current Daphne Randall 4mph thriller and whodunits always take a little longer to wrap up because you need to keep trawling back through your text for continuity errors and plot holes.  I can now, as of this morning, claim to have finished the first draft of The Wychnor Mystery.  It won't be on general release this side of Christmas as it still needs a thorough revision, my proof-read and passing as seaworthy (or at least, given a boat safety check) by one or more of my trusty volunteer proof-readers.

However, this is day 6 of the NaNoWriMo challenge and I have only 1000 words of one draft opening scene for an untitled Universal Credit-themed story.  Target word count for a 50,000 word novel (or 'flash fiction' as I call it) would be 10,000 words by now.  Either I lock myself in my room for the next week and get on with it or we accept NaNoWriMo may not be happening this year.

That would be a shame because, this morning, I had either the most brilliant, or the most ridiculous, idea for this book.  It came about as I was browsing the UC guidelines for a working title (as you do...)  There were snappy phrases such as 'full work-related requirements', 'in-work conditionality', 'alternative payment arrangement', minimum income floor', 'limited capability for work-related activity element' and 'real-time reporting', to mention just a few.  It was this last one that struck a chord.  What if, instead of having the usual long-winded story arch, my next book was simply a real-time look at the Project, its staff and service users, right now?  And what if I blogged each day's story directly to readers, as it was written, typos, glitches and all? 

That would be crazier than carrying a bag of teddy bears around town to promote Stoke-on-Trent's bid to be City of Culture if not quite as much as deciding to blithely carry on with the roll-out of Universal Credit, despite the advice of the best brains in the business.  I'm still six days behind reality but it looks, from the Paradise Papers revelations, as if  I couldn't have picked a better time to catch up with my imaginary friends in the south and write some good old-fashioned, politically-motivated fiction.

Let's do it, people!

Reality Check

Some things never change...

I've been pondering whether, when I've finished our Daphne's current adventure, I should:
a) start writing another Solent Welfare Rights Project novel, taking my regular characters through the roll-out of Universal Credit,
b) cast off with Daph on another 4mph thriller or
c) create a new Welfare Rights Lit cast facing UC far from south Hampshire, perhaps in a North Midlands city not unlike Stoke-on-Trent.
d) leave the grown-up stuff for a bit and write more blogs and stories for Sonning Bear, who is both cuter and probably far more commercially viable than those leftie humans I write about.

If we are to take the intervention of the Eastleigh MP in last weeks UC roll-out debate at face value, a) is not an option.  All is well with UC in Eastleigh - in fact, it's a jolly good thing for all concerned.  According to Mims Davies (Conservative...)

"Eighteen months ago, I visited Radian, a housing association in my constituency. Radian expressed to me and to our hon. Friend the Minister for Employment concerns about the impact of universal credit on tenants. Eighteen months later, those people are in work, paying the rent and working with the housing association. The outcome is positive. Labour Members are simply scaremongering."

Should we therefore picture Martin, Hilary et al sitting in their office, drinking even more tea and coffee than usual, playing Solitaire on their computers and discussing nothing more contentious than their plans for the weekend, while Father Cornelius, Tom and Paula package up the remains of another day's community meal for the freezer, having served only their own staff and a couple of loyal social workers, while unneeded tinned stuff for the foodbank gathers dust in the storeroom?  Not much material for a novel in that, is there?  Of course, those notorious scaremongers The Trussell Trust have been making wild claims about how demand for foodbank support has rocketed where the full UC service has rolled out but hey, what do they know?

My home area is still inflicting UC only on those unlucky enough to slip into the UC lobster pot via the Gateway Conditions, so in 'the day job'* I have little experience of it.  Hence the idea of creating a new cast of characters in an area still waiting for Full Digital UC roll out.  I imagine it would turn out rather like a benefits-themed version of Neville Shute's On The Beach.  If I set it locally, I could also link it into Stoke-on-Trent's bid to be City of Culture 2021 (something that I whole-heartedly endorse) although I'm not sure a story about claimants and advisers laying into the injustices of Welfare Reform is the kind of culture the current Council regime wish to encourage.

The most appealing option is another adventure for Daphne.  I have notebooks crammed with observations from narrowboat journeys and plot outlines based upon them, plus several computerised drafts of opening chapters and exchanges between characters.  The second most appealing prospect is writing Sonning stories, because they're jolly, escapist fun and I enjoy setting up photos of the bear to illustrate them so much that he's pretty much taken over my personal Facebook page.

The deciding factor may be this comment from the Solent Welfare Rights Project's Facebook page.  The fictional advisers put up a post wondering if, since I was on short time throughout November (NaNoWriMo) I might write them into another novel.  The response from one reader was a cry from the heart:

"Please please please I'm currently reading the books again for something like the seventh time I need more!"

That's really very touching.  In all seriousness, apart from Ken Loach's I, Daniel Blake I still don't think there's much fiction being written that reflects the fall-out from Welfare Reform and I'm not sure there's anyone else telling tales where the claimants and advisers usually win the day.

So sorry, Mims Davies, you're out-voted - again!  It's (almost) time to get the kettle on at the Solent Welfare Rights Project!

PS.  The whole series of 'Claimant Commitment' stories, what was to have been the last novel about the Solent Welfare Rights Project, is free to download for Kindle tomorrow (29th October).
The first part is here...


*The Day Job, with the CAB, is currently exactly that - one day per week - as I'm sharing my half-time post with a colleague to avoid either of us being made redundant, at least for now!

Bear with me...

As mentioned in my previous post, I've spent much of this summer with my husband Jon on our little narrowboat, making a 600 mile journey down to Godalming in Surrey and back to Stoke-on-Trent.  Along the way (and along the Wey...) I've been making plenty of notes for possible future investigations for my boat-dwelling amateur detective, Daphne Randall, as well as jotting down ideas for a possible return to the Solent Welfare Rights Project to catch up with the team as they get to grips with Universal Credit.

However, my human heroes are in danger of being upstaged by a cuddly toy!  The entirely true story of where and how he came to join the crew can be read - from the bear's perspective - in our local Inland Waterways Association magazine (page 18 - 20).  You'll find it here:

https://issuu.com/waterwaysassoc/docs/knobsticks_autumn_2017

Sonning is such a cute character that I can't resist writing more stories about him, so there is no shortage of material from our travels to share with the IWA.  The plan is to use his adventures to explain aspects of narrow-boating, canal history and waterways wildlife to younger readers.  They'll also have plenty of photos of the small bear to illustrate them, as I often posed him admiring the passing landscape or even trying his hand - or rather, paw - at steering the boat. 

Since he was found wearing only a striped Breton top, somewhat under-dressed for boating, I set to work making him some appropriate outfits. 

 

Clever cutting up of an old pair of jeans - already being cannibalised to repair another pair of mine - gave him dungarees and a hat, while a 'Bag for Life' rather appropriately provided him with a life-jacket!

 

The jeans also gave him a boiler-suit while a kind friend's gift of felt squares enabled me to make him a little duffle coat as autumn saw us back on the Trent.  He also has waterproofs - made from a Sainsbury's bag and sticky tape, pyjamas and, for his visit to Nottingham, a Robin Hood costume!

Since getting to Stoke, Sonning has met a little friend (called Hanley), who needs a new outfit himself if there aren't to be copy write issues.  Hanley's current mission is to show Sonning why Stoke-on-Trent deserves to be City of Culture 2021, so I'll be posting their adventures together, on and off the waterways, on this blog. 

Look out for #WhereIsTheBear and the #BearsBackingTheBid on Twitter too!

Back to Back the Bid

There's a very good reason why there have been no posts on this blog for months.  I've spent most of the summer on a 600 mile narrowboat journey from Stoke-on-Trent down to Godalming in Surrey and back, punctuated by intermittent returns home by train to cut the front lawn, top up the tomato watering system and work my one day per week (usually as two together per fortnight) at Citizens Advice.

On my travels, I've sketched out plots and made navigational notes for some more adventures for Daphne Randall, my narrowboat-dwelling amateur sleuth, and completed the first draft of her next, an old-fashioned whodunit which unfolds along the Trent and Mersey Canal between Fradley Junction and Shardlow.  With Stoke-on-Trent bidding to be City of Culture 2021, here's an extract from the first chapter in which Daphne and her crew set off through Stoke-on-Trent, in the spring of 2015, en route to the last match of the season at what was then the Britannia Stadium.  I hope it gives a flavour of the canal corridor through the city and its under-appreciated charms!

    Harry brought my tea up as we were chugging through Longport, passing the first of the bottle kilns visible from the canal, which peeps out from behind a tumbledown brick factory and stands in a squalid yard scattered with junk. Under the road bridge, boats line the wharf of a busy boatyard, some for brokerage sitting on blocks out of the water, showing their dumpy black hulls. Beyond the stone-faced chandlery is Steelite’s robust, modern, red-brick factory, quiet for the weekend and thoughtfully reflected in the still pool of a wide winding hole. No old-fashioned potbank this although, only a gentle curve ahead, is Burleigh’s Middleport Pottery, a Victorian survivor rescued from redundancy.

    ‘Did I ever tell you that was where I first saw this boat?’ I asked Harry.

    ‘You did, duck. At least twice. And that funny story about your mum and the coach party.’

    Just past the restored pottery, the waterside warehouses fall to desperate disrepair again, the fine brickwork braced with iron struts yet still crumbling. I gave the building as wide a berth as I dared, knowing the cut beside it was full of debris.

    ‘Take the tiller for a bit, pet. I’ll wash the mugs up and look in on the dog.’

    Custer was snoozing contentedly in the cosy warmth of the cratch, betraying Harry’s soft-heartedness with the dusting of dog-biscuit crumbs by his snout.  I couldn’t be angry with either of them.

    Harry brought us around the long, sweeping curve to Festival Park, through an open post-industrial landscape which once blazed with hot light and fire as the Shelton Bar steel works. He checked his watch. The carvery pub by the marina does all-you-can-eat breakfasts and Harry was feeling peckish, but he opted to press on.

    ‘I’ll get an oatcake from Kay’s boat when we get to the Brit,’ he decided, steering us on under the noisy A53.

    Before we reached the first lock, the deep one at Etruria, I fetched Custer from the cratch and brought him back to the rear cabin. Harry and I are both careful boaters and take locks cautiously but you can never eliminate all risk of mishap in them and I was haunted by the thought of the poor little chap being trapped where we couldn’t reach him in the event of a problem. When I dropped Harry off with his windlass, I moved Custer into the engine room, closing the doors of the stern hatch with me outside.

    There was a boat coming up. Harry was chatting to a woman as they worked the paddles together, filling the chamber and lifting her boat and partner up to my level. Harry opened the gate and the woman stepped back onto her narrowboat. The couple waved as they passed me.

    ‘Where are they off to?’ I asked Harry, as I drew level with him.

   ‘Through Harecastle and out into Cheshire as soon as they can. They’re doing the Four Counties.’ He seemed downcast. ‘I was telling them about some of the things there are to see here - the potteries, the museums, the pubs - but they weren’t really interested. They said other people told them Stoke was a dump and they shouldn’t hang about.’

    Harry seemed to take that personally. As he wound me through the deep lock and the one below, he made a point of showing me the pale and pretty briar roses in the hedgerow which flanked the towpath, of listening appreciatively to the clear songs of the blackbirds and smiling at the dainty, cheeping blue-tits fluttering through leaves made luminous lime by the sunlight shining through them. He praised the restoration of the bone mill at the museum and the devotion of its volunteers, the quality of the towpath, upgraded as part of the national cycle network, and even the artistic merits of some of the graffiti. I hadn’t the heart to point out that on every other run through this section, he had been the first to grumble about the litter, dog mess, speeding cyclists, tumble-down buildings and mindless spray-painted tags.

    Harry was still maintaining this spirited defence of his city when we reached Lock 37, a desolate sight as it cowered in the shadow of the paint-daubed railway bridge. I thought he would be thwarted by that but I had under-estimated him.

    ‘It was about here that I first figured out that I fancied you,’ he said with a grin of fond reminiscence, pushing the gate closed behind me. ‘I reckon I’ll always have a soft spot for this place.’

He leaned across and kissed me.

    I smiled as I watched him set his windlass to the spindle and await my signal to turn. If Harry could find a place in his heart for lock 37, there was surely nothing that could make him fall out of love with his home town. I was lucky to have earned a similar level of devotion.

.

Catching Up (Part 5) - A long-awaited Decision

    'I think this is it, Luvvie...'
    Lyn Walker held the brown envelope her husband had brought in from the hall with the daily junk mail.  Her hands were shaking slightly.  She needed to know the decision it contained. She had been expecting it for weeks.  It meant so much she was almost too afraid to read it.
    Her so-called medical assessment for Personal Independence Payment, which had taken place more than two months earlier, had been an awkward affair.  The assessment centre had been awkward to get to, with too little parking and that too far away to walk and then a steep, uneven path to the door which Terry had to push her up in her wheelchair.  The young woman who carried out the assessment, who Lyn thought introduced herself as 'doctor' someone - Lyn had been too nervous to remember her name, even though she meant to make a note of it - scarcely raised her eyes from her keyboard and seemed to be finished very quickly.  Lyn was certain it had gone badly on that evidence alone, although none of the workers at the Solent Welfare Rights Project seemed to know who the slightly-built young doctor might be.  She wasn't one of the usual suspects whose ill-considered reports were at the root of so many legal challenges.
    While she waited for her PIP claim to be decided, Lyn continued to receive her Disability Living Allowance; the middle rate for daytime care needs, the higher rate for mobility as a Motability car.  She checked her account anxiously on the days it was due to be paid, half-expecting it not to have gone in.  She had seen people when volunteering who knew nothing of the decision on their new claims until their DLA payments unexpectedly ceased.  So much hinged on her getting DLA.  Terry, her husband, now loitering awkwardly at her side, claimed Carer's Allowance for looking after her, although he didn't receive a penny of it.  It overlapped with his Employment and Support Allowance.  To their great relief, that had recently been reviewed and awarded without a face-to-face medical.  Terry was still in the Work-related Activity Group but, as a carer, he didn't have to do any actual work-related activity. 
    Lyn had explained that too him when he started to get aerated about the prospect of being sent on courses or to do work experience.  That was just as well, since she would never be able to manage at home all day without him.
    'I'm glad you understand all this, Lyn love...'
    Lyn did understand it, far better now than she had ever done.  She worked alongside the advisers who had helped Terry and herself through several crises, representing others just as she had once needed to be represented, at least when her health allowed.  Her colleagues were generous with their support, quick to share their knowledge and experience, and happy to step in if she was too unwell to see a case through to the end.  If what was in this envelope was wrong, she knew they would stand by her through every battle she needed to fight to put it right.  That would almost inevitably mean facing a three-member tribunal.  It was rare for a poor decision to be corrected at the reconsideration stage; in fact, the team had recently learned that there were perverse targets within the DWP which actually mitigated against them putting things right at the first opportunity.
    'Open it then, Lyn love!' urged Terry.
    She was sure he wouldn't be happy.  Her own expectation was that she might get the enhanced rate for daily living, if she was lucky - thirty pounds more than her current middle rate care - and the standard rate for mobility.  That would be thirty pounds less than what she got for mobility now and would mean she couldn't get a leased car through Motability with it.  Terry, who almost always did the driving, would be really angry about that, even if they were no worse off overall.
    Lyn picked a corner of the envelope open and ran her finger along the top, opening it with a slightly ragged tear.  She took out the letter inside, the usual dirty grey paper the DWP used for letters, which was meant to show they didn't waste money on fancy stationery but, according to Hilary's husband who had worked there, cost no less than white.  She unfolded it anxiously, still trembling.
    'Oh!'
    'What?'  Terry snapped.  'If those buggers have...'
    'I've got the enhanced rate for both!'  Lyn could scarcely believe her eyes.
    'Blimey!' said Terry, peering over her shoulder.  'So you have!  Well done, Lyn love!'  He kissed the top of her head.  'Let's have a brew!'
    Lyn smiled grimly to herself.  It was a sad state of affairs that the maximum award of a benefit for severe disability was cause for celebration.  She looked on through the letter to see where she had been awarded points.  There were four for needing assistance to cook a meal, three for needing assistance in and out of a bath or shower, two for needing an aid to use the toilet and four for assistance to dress her upper body; thirteen points, where twelve were needed.  On the mobility side, she was judged able to stand and move more than one metre but no more than twenty; twelve more precious points.  On good days, she could do better than this but fewer than half of her days were good days.
    'It'll be weird, not battling the old Social for once,' laughed Terry as he brought their mugs in.  He had opened the new pack of chocolate biscuits as part of the celebration.
    'I'll still be battling them, Luvvie,' said Lyn.  'I'll just be battling for someone else rather than me!'      

Daphne's General Election Dilemma (or "It's Déjà Vu All Over Again")

Another 'which way to vote?' conversation between two old friends, Daphne Randall from the 4mph Thrillers and Welfare Rights Lit's Hilary Carrington.  In case you're new to this blog, their previous discussion is here.

    'Hi Hils!'

    'Daphne!  How lovely to hear you!  Are you well?'

    'Never better, pet.'

    'And Harry?'

    'No worse than usual.  We're out at the Brit for the match tomorrow, then off to Coventry and the Ashby Canal for a week.'

    'I'm really rather envious.  I could do with a break myself.  It's all go at the Project.  We're still, trying to get to grips with this new fully digital Universal Credit system.  Our work is more IT helpdesk than welfare rights at the moment and, as you might imagine, the Community Café - especially the foodbank - is dreadfully busy.'

    'We're spared that until next spring, thankfully - and maybe longer, if the bookies have called it wrong with the Election!'

    'Wouldn't that be a relief!  I have to say, I'm surprised Harry's able to take a holiday just now - I would have thought he'd be hard at it, with an election to cover.'

    'He's hard at it, alright - his garden hasn't looked so tidy in years and, with it wet today, he's even started decorating his spare room.'

    'However does he have the time for that?'

    'He's resigned, pet.'

    'Resigned!'

    'Aye.  On local election day, the Gazette carried a Tory election flyer as a four-page wrap.  Our Harry's not always on our wavelength, Hils, but he prides himself of taking an even-handed and independent line, so he told his editor this tacky ad had cheapened the paper and undermined his neutrality and integrity.  He came home in a blaze of righteous indignation, had a whisky, took his shears to the brambles out the back, went through them like napalm then borrowed a rotavator of the old lad next door and churned up the lawn.  It scared the daylights out of the dog!  He's got it all laid out as flower beds and a kitchen garden now and, when it gets dark, he's either catching up on Gardener's World on the iPlayer or Googling "Constructive Dismissal", unless I take him round to the pub.'

    'He must almost be old enough to retire, though?'

    'Only a couple of years off, pet.  He hoped to keep working a while yet.  He's not got much saved up, after his divorces and such like and I cannot keep him on my wage.  He'll have to get a job of some sort.  He was joking about putting up for Council last night.'

    'That's ironic, considering how you two met!  He's certainly got the political knowledge but which party would he support?  You're always pulling his leg about him being a Tory - he isn't really, is he?'

    'After this business, I'd say not.  He was even cheering Jeremy Corbyn on Channel 4 last night, though that was when he said he'd keep his allotment if he became PM, rather than for anything he said on defence.  I cannot see him joining the local Labour team, mind.'

    'Out of loyalty to you?'

    'Partly that.  Partly because he cannot forgive them wasting so much money on those new offices.'

    'I rather liked the multi-coloured one!'

    'That's easy to say, Hils, when it's not your public services being cut to pay for it!'

    'Fair point, Daph.  Poor old Harry, though!  He must be missing the buzz around the General Election.  I see a couple of your local seats are officially marginal and at risk of going Conservative this time around, if UKIP votes go their way.  I always assumed yours were all safe Labour.'

    'Far from it, pet.  There's a rogue right wing up here that does all kinds of strange stuff and the left is no more predictable.  I'm not even sure how I'm voting myself.'

    'Really?  I would have thought that, nationally anyway, Labour had done quite a lot to win you back.  If the leaked manifesto is anything to go by, they'll pick up any of my colleagues' votes not better used tactically.  Finally, some proper pledges on reversing more of the benefit cuts than just the Bedroom Tax!  Whatever is stopping you this time?'

    'Well, you know how the BBC cannot seem to hit town anywhere without finding some old lad or lass to say they've always voted Labour before but cannot vote for Corbyn?'

    'Indeed!'

    'I'm the equal and opposite reaction to that.  I've been reluctant to vote Labour - except as a lesser evil - but now, under Corbyn, it's finally looking like a genuine force for good again.'

    'I do agreed, Daphne.  And I am starting to get really rather suspicious of those interviews.  I wonder whether they show people saying that more to encourage others to think it than because it's so prevalent.  They never ask what exactly these people don't like, or which actually policies they disapprove of.  And they interviewed a couple in York who carried on about working during power cuts in the nineteen-seventies but looked younger than us - and we were still at school then!'

    'Plenty of voluntary sector organisations are afraid to speak out and tell the truth for fear of losing funding.  Is it any wonder if the BBC is the same?'

    'If you feel that way, Daph, what's the problem with voting Labour?  Is it Brexit?  We were both awfully upset with the Referendum result and I would love to be able to vote again, when people can see what a mess it really all is and that they haven't got extra money for the NHS, just fewer doctors and nurses - but at least Labour seem keen to keep us in the Single Market, like Norway.'

    'It should be an easier call this year but my worry is that I'll vote for the local Labour lad, he'll get in - but nationally, Labour won't - then he and the other so-called "moderates" will go off to form a new version of the old SDP, blaming Corbs for the collapse of the party and taking no responsibility for creating the split narrative the media have been running throughout the campaign.  It won't be the 1970s all over again, it'll be the 1980s!  I'm not even sure they'll stand by their leader if, by a miracle, Labour wins.  What if they still form their own party, or vote with the Tories to keep benefits low or the railways in private hands, or for a "no deal" Brexit because it's the will of the people?  I'm not sure I can trust them not to.  I'm still feeling the only way I can demonstrate what I really believe is to vote Green.'

    'Which is fair enough, unless your Labour-lite candidate's position is so precarious he gets defeated by a Tory.  You fear your Labour candidate might renege on these promises or even quit the party, but you know a that Conservative MP would oppose everything you hold dear.  I think you have to chance it.  Blairite or Thatcherite isn't a happy choice but it looks like the only safe one.  Mind you, I'll probably be holding my nose and voting LibDem.'

    'Just as long as we get a second Referendum and not a second coalition, Hils.'

    'They did promise not to.'

    'They're politicians, pet.'