Some weeks ago I dealt with a young man from the Horn of Africa. I came this close to throttling him.
He slumped into my office and started off straightaway with "I want to know what benefits I am entitled to".
[Why should he be "entitled" to anything? He has not contributed a penny to the British economy.]
He told me he was being given some benefits in another part of the country and so clearly he was "entitled" to those benefits. But his JSA (JobSeekers Allowance) was stopped because the woman at the Job Centre said as a student he is not looking for a job and should not be entitled to JSA.
This woman is right. Otherwise every college student would be claiming JSA but these students are not really prepared to leave their courses to work.
The point is without his JSA his Housing Benefit (paying rent) and Council Tax Benefit (paying council tax) were also stopped. So this poor chap had to move in with his sister. Previously he had "his" own little flat.
[It is not YOUR flat. We the taxpayers are paying for that flat.]
I was distressed because every time I followed a line of inquiry (having gone outside to seek help from my supervisor, and returned to ask further questions) this young man changed his story.
Time and time again he changed his story until I felt that he had been telling me nothing but lies, wasting my time.
First he was receiving JSA in Yorkshire. Then he was not receiving JSA in Yorkshire. [We wanted to establish why a benefit approved in Yorkshire was withdrawn where we are.]
First he put in an appeal for a decision to strip him of his benefits. Then he did not put in an appeal, "but something was submitted at the Job Centre". [We could help in advising on the appeal procedure, hold his hand a bit, if he did appeal.]
First he said his college had "given them everything" to prove that he was attending class for less than 16 hours a week. Then his college merely told him to photocopy information in the college prospectus. [Previously I've seen letters written by colleges on headed paper to support their students. Why did his college not do the same?]
Throughout the interview he was also going, "But I am entitled to this," "I should be entitled to that." At one point he asked for a lawyer to help him fight his case.
And who would pay for the lawyer?
In the end we decided that we would help him if he would do steps 1,2,3, etc. and gave him a slot to see an adviser.
Then the pièce de résistance (for want of a better phrase but I think you get my drift). Just before he left my office I passed on my manager's advice, "Well, if you are only studying for 14 hours, there's nothing to stop you looking for a part-time job." [This is what most foreign students do. They are allowed to work up to 20 hours a week, and most do.]
His reply was, "There are no part-time jobs out there. They are all full-time jobs."
Liar. Complete liar.
Everyone else tells us that there are only part-time jobs, offering a few hours here and there, but far fewer full-time ones.
And he just shot himself in the foot: If there are full-time jobs and he cannot, or refuses to, take up a full-time job, then he is NOT a JobSeeker by definition and therefore should not be given JSA. Simple.
My young friends at church work for minimum wage at bars, restaurants, cleaning, etc. for pocket money whenever they can. (They also have parents who pay tax, unlike this young man.) This young man could do the same but refuses to.
He much prefers to "sign on", pretend to look for a job or two to fulfil his "job-seeking" obligation under JSA, continue to complete his course at college, and expect the taxpayer to give him a nice little flat meanwhile. [It is pretence because he has clearly stated that he was not going to give up his college course even he was offered a job.]
What makes him think he is entitled to certain benefits in the first place?
He is "entitled" to money if he is being owed money. By insisting that he was "entitled" to benefits suggests that he was being owed benefits. The taxpayer pays these benefits. He is in effect saying that taxpayers (yes, people like me) owe him these benefits.
As a taxpayer and volunteer, I really resented his arrogance in saying that I owed him these benefits. I do not owe him money and do not feel obliged to help someone like him. So his stance that he was "entitled" to something for doing nothing, worse, by pretending to be a jobseeker, does not help his case.
Claiming benefits fraudulently is a crime. Perhaps I should have warned him.
Today I checked. This young man did not bother to show up for his appointment. Why was I not surprised?
He wasted an advice slot that could have gone to someone else needing urgent help.
20/1/12 Update: Out of curiosity I looked up the college at which this young man said he was doing a diploma in engineering. The only engineering diploma courses on their website require full-time study. So how he could argue that it is for 14 hours a week is quite beyond me.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Homeless in London, who cares?
My clients yesterday included a 44-year-old mother of four who suffers from incontinence and told me that "I am claiming [benefits] for them [husband and sons]".
She's one of the thousands the government is trying to move off Incapacity Benefit (she was classed as severely disabled) back into work (JobSeekers Allowance). However because no one in the family works, for her to lose her benefits would mean the family would struggle to survive.
This is despite one son and husband also claiming benefits. She "claims for them" in the sense that she is entitled to most. When I probed further she said that she is a bit embarrassed by her problem and so does not feel that she could work.
She also mentioned depression. I wonder if the depression is a result of her not working or her reason (excuse?) not to work. Similarly her son who trained as a plumber could not find a job -- and is depressed -- and so has signed on.
Before I met this lady I didn't think incontinence is such a big problem that it would be categorized as "severely disabled". Let's put it this way: us women are "incontinent" for a week in every four, dripping blood, and we manage to remain in work.
It appears that this lady is not using the right kind of support, using sanitary pads instead of incontinence aids, to control her problems (smell, eg). She's only 44. She has another 27 years, possibly more, to state retirement age.
Twenty-seven years! That is a long time. She could do so much during this time. People are known to have got their PhDs by the time they are 27, for crying out loud.
Her grown up son who trained as a plumber, he's sitting at home waiting for a job to come to him. Is this a symptom or a result of the welfare state?
Why does he not go to solicit for business? Everyone is looking for a good plumber. Why not ask to work for someone for free, a charity for example, helping to fix plumbing for old people? He sits at home collecting his JSA, and gets depressed.
Worklessness in this country contributes to poverty, not of the pocket, but of the soul.
Another client arrived from France and went to claim benefits the following day. And was rejected. He had been thrown out by his wife*. I don't know the details.
Nepali woman who does not speak a word of English wearing very "blingey" glasses. She applied for pension credit and was awarded it for several months. Then some hardworking civil servant (hurrah! there is at least one) finds out that she is not actually eligible.
Her daughter has sponsored her visa. Her daughter has undertaken to maintain her. Somehow someone told her that benefits were to be had if she applied. Now she's slapped with an "overpayment" bill. We advised on how she could settle the bill.
I had to warn her that if she made too big a fuss, they could just deport her.
Student next, paid an enormous amount of money to a "college" offering something like an "MEP" (Masters Entry Programme). This young man spoke with such a heavy accent I could hardly understand him. The college threw him out, saying that he was not a good enough student. They also dismissed about half his class. Student wants his money back. This is, believe it or not, a consumer issue.
Room got a bit cold, so I shut the window. Big mistake.
My next client was a man who has been sleeping rough. He had not washed for two weeks. He came in and promptly removed his shoes to show me his problems.
He arrived in this country on a spouse visa. His wife is supposed to support him. But somehow he managed to antagonize her enough she threw him out*, and this man has also been given conditional police bail -- whatever that means. He had come in two weeks ago and another volunteer tried to help him. And now he's back.
[*Women are so keen to throw out their husbands, it seems. Why?]
Because he has "no status" in the country he is not entitled to any benefits. So some "charities" would not touch him as their costs could not be recouped from government departments. We rang around, my manager and I, and I finally found a nice young lady who advised that he could get to a day centre the following day where they would give him some food, he could have a shower, wash his clothes, and they might even be able to give him shelter.
"Uhm, what if he has a history of violence?" YMCA has rejected him on that basis, so I thought I should check.
Lady checked. "Uhm, yes, it's OK. We love everyone here."
I managed to stop myself asking, "Are you, by any chance, a Christian charity?"
CEO gave us permission to give him money for a night at a B&B. Manager had also made him a cup of tea and given him some food.
I hope this man managed to get to the day centre and I hope they are able to shelter him. But it led me to think: If his wife promised to be responsible for him, but is not, should she be given the bill when he is finally sorted out?
Why should I, as the taxpayer, pick up her bill?
I came home and looked up the day centre and discovered that they are indeed a Christian charity. There was something in the way that lady spoke, or something she said, which gave the game away.
I also cannot get over the smell.
She's one of the thousands the government is trying to move off Incapacity Benefit (she was classed as severely disabled) back into work (JobSeekers Allowance). However because no one in the family works, for her to lose her benefits would mean the family would struggle to survive.
This is despite one son and husband also claiming benefits. She "claims for them" in the sense that she is entitled to most. When I probed further she said that she is a bit embarrassed by her problem and so does not feel that she could work.
She also mentioned depression. I wonder if the depression is a result of her not working or her reason (excuse?) not to work. Similarly her son who trained as a plumber could not find a job -- and is depressed -- and so has signed on.
Before I met this lady I didn't think incontinence is such a big problem that it would be categorized as "severely disabled". Let's put it this way: us women are "incontinent" for a week in every four, dripping blood, and we manage to remain in work.
It appears that this lady is not using the right kind of support, using sanitary pads instead of incontinence aids, to control her problems (smell, eg). She's only 44. She has another 27 years, possibly more, to state retirement age.
Twenty-seven years! That is a long time. She could do so much during this time. People are known to have got their PhDs by the time they are 27, for crying out loud.
Her grown up son who trained as a plumber, he's sitting at home waiting for a job to come to him. Is this a symptom or a result of the welfare state?
Why does he not go to solicit for business? Everyone is looking for a good plumber. Why not ask to work for someone for free, a charity for example, helping to fix plumbing for old people? He sits at home collecting his JSA, and gets depressed.
Worklessness in this country contributes to poverty, not of the pocket, but of the soul.
Another client arrived from France and went to claim benefits the following day. And was rejected. He had been thrown out by his wife*. I don't know the details.
Nepali woman who does not speak a word of English wearing very "blingey" glasses. She applied for pension credit and was awarded it for several months. Then some hardworking civil servant (hurrah! there is at least one) finds out that she is not actually eligible.
Her daughter has sponsored her visa. Her daughter has undertaken to maintain her. Somehow someone told her that benefits were to be had if she applied. Now she's slapped with an "overpayment" bill. We advised on how she could settle the bill.
I had to warn her that if she made too big a fuss, they could just deport her.
Student next, paid an enormous amount of money to a "college" offering something like an "MEP" (Masters Entry Programme). This young man spoke with such a heavy accent I could hardly understand him. The college threw him out, saying that he was not a good enough student. They also dismissed about half his class. Student wants his money back. This is, believe it or not, a consumer issue.
Room got a bit cold, so I shut the window. Big mistake.
My next client was a man who has been sleeping rough. He had not washed for two weeks. He came in and promptly removed his shoes to show me his problems.
He arrived in this country on a spouse visa. His wife is supposed to support him. But somehow he managed to antagonize her enough she threw him out*, and this man has also been given conditional police bail -- whatever that means. He had come in two weeks ago and another volunteer tried to help him. And now he's back.
[*Women are so keen to throw out their husbands, it seems. Why?]
Because he has "no status" in the country he is not entitled to any benefits. So some "charities" would not touch him as their costs could not be recouped from government departments. We rang around, my manager and I, and I finally found a nice young lady who advised that he could get to a day centre the following day where they would give him some food, he could have a shower, wash his clothes, and they might even be able to give him shelter.
"Uhm, what if he has a history of violence?" YMCA has rejected him on that basis, so I thought I should check.
Lady checked. "Uhm, yes, it's OK. We love everyone here."
I managed to stop myself asking, "Are you, by any chance, a Christian charity?"
CEO gave us permission to give him money for a night at a B&B. Manager had also made him a cup of tea and given him some food.
I hope this man managed to get to the day centre and I hope they are able to shelter him. But it led me to think: If his wife promised to be responsible for him, but is not, should she be given the bill when he is finally sorted out?
Why should I, as the taxpayer, pick up her bill?
I came home and looked up the day centre and discovered that they are indeed a Christian charity. There was something in the way that lady spoke, or something she said, which gave the game away.
I also cannot get over the smell.
Monday, November 07, 2011
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
Warning: This is a brag post, originally written for a Singapore audience.
My son, his mate and I enjoy watching the comedy series "Miranda" in which Miranda's friend (and employee) often holds up a mask of Heather Small and mimic her singing "What have you done today to make you FEEL proud?"
Yesterday I went to bed thinking that I really toted up well.
First, a meeting with fellow social scientists outside academia. It was a group I started – by accident – some years ago and now it has grown, nearly 400 members! Was able to encourage those present.
Then on the way home – my train, for which I was careful to buy a first class ticket to ensure a seat after a tiring meeting, was cancelled – I was squashed into a Tube train whereupon a man with a beard, long hair, a very large ring in his nose, dirty finger nails, on a walking stick asked my fellow social scientist and myself whether the train was going to MK.
He, too, was supposed to be on my cancelled train, but got shoved into this other train instead.
My colleague got off the train but this man – let's call him Mick – leeched on to me. Meanwhile husband was on the phone trying to get 'live' information on the internet and telling me how to get home.
We were directed to make a change at station X at which anxious people were trying to get information as to how to travel. The platform staff were trying to be helpful but they, alas, did not seem to have the up-to-date information.
The electronic board said 17:15 was "on time" whereas I was told on the phone (and another passenger apparently knew too) that it was cancelled. What to do?
Husband on phone said, go to platform 3. Train due in. I walked over to platform 3 as quickly as I could while Mick hobbled along, trying to keep up.
More confusion on this platform. Even bigger crowd. Mood still harmonious though. People were anxious, not angry. Londoners are used to such delays. Unlike in Singapore, a train that is delayed by six minutes does not get reported in the papers.
Husband on phone, "There should be a train coming in at 17.19. It's the late-running 16:44. Get on that one."
I could hear on radio of staff on platform receive the information from control at a station upstream, "Train leaving that platform, should be at station X soon."
Husband on phone, "Your 17:19 should be arriving any second now. You might need to push your way in. I'll hang on to make sure you're on."
Me, "No. If I need to push in I need both hands. Call back in five minutes."
Train on platform. Mick said, "O no! It's one of those trains with a big drop from the platform. I made sure Mick got onto the train and followed." We actually found seats across each other.
Husband on phone, "Are you on?"
Me: "Yes."
Husband, "Your train should arrive at 17:32. I'll be at the station to pick you up."
Mick continued to make conversation with me across the train. Other passengers looked on with interest. Was tramp-like Mick harrassing this tiny Chinese woman? I felt they were all watching to make sure I was alright.
The man next to Mick was clearly an ex-Gurkha. He wears a uniform with a badge "Security" emblazoned on it. (A number of ex-Gurkhas are in the security sector in the UK.)
Girl next to me got off. Mick came to sit next to me. Mick had been very keen to tell us on the first train that he could not wait to get home to his flat in MK. He had gone to London for a "demo" for animal rights.
I asked him where he lived before MK. He uhmmed and arhed which suggests that he had just been taken off the streets, or released from supported housing (for mentally ill?), or even perhaps from prison, but he was "doing well". I had, as if on auto-pilot, put on my CAB hat and wanted to make sure that he was being looked after as well as looking after himself.
So the questions came fast: why the walking stick? Orthoarthritis since he was 16 or 17. How old is he? About 39. Is he taking his medicine? He stopped because the pain comes back one the drugs wear off. He just bears with the pain." I thought, "Hmm, should I ask if he was on cannabis?" Time and place for everything, my dear. The train is not the right place.
Is he with a GP? Which council is looking after him? Does he get to do much? So I learned that he gets "lonely, you know" and he repeated how pleased he was to be travelling with such good company. Earlier he had given me his number so that my vegetarian colleague could call him. Now he tells me I should put his number on my phone, too.
No, I won't, I said. "Why not?" It's falling apart. "O! But you'd put it in your next phone." I didn't commit.
Then I said he should stop smoking. Told him I could smell it a mile away. What a waste of money. "I know, but I have cut down a lot," and threw me a sheepish look.
He told me he is into art (I really hope it's art, and not graffitti). I said he should make himself useful, do something with his art. "Do something nice for someone every day."
He said he tries to do that, indeed. Mick might smell, but he speaks very good English, and very polite. If indeed he was on cannabis his intellect had only be slightly dulled by its use.
We reached our station at the end of the line and was thrown off the train. I walked away quickly, wishing him a safe journey home. He waited as I went through the gates to say "Goodbye!".
I think Mick was chuffed that two complete strangers (describing us as "very pleasant ladies") trusted him enough to continue a conversation with him. Would he do something to make himself useful? I don't know and might never know. But I certainly hope so.
Outside my "chauffeur" was waiting patiently and we got home, had a short break and we were off to a church fireworks party.
There we met PO and his dad. PO has just lost his mum. His dad had been married for nearly 60 years. Put another way, he had been married for longer than I have been alive.
For Christmas "dinner" we usually gather people we know who have no close family to go to, or people who are new to the country. So a number of nationalities have graced our table at Christmas.
[What would Jesus do? In the parable of the banquet the rich man invited those who were not likely to reciprocate his invitation. This is also partly a result of my own experience of Christmas in this country as a single person. Friends went home to their families and I was on my own, lonely and very cold.]
We had asked PO and his dad this time knowing that the first Christmas after the death of a loved one is always difficult. PO's dad was not sure whether he wanted to accept the invitation just incase he wanted to be able to have a cry. Later on he grabbed me by the shoulders and said "Christmas. Thank you for the invitation. Yes, we will be there."
Tears welled up and he gave me a long, long hug. I comforted him as I have comforted others by confessing that it took me four years before I could speak of the death of my father without crying.
When we left the party – husband was "smoke damaged" by then , from being the "lighter" of fireworks – PO's dad gave me another long hug, and still more tears.
At the end of the day I took stock and thought: It does not take much to bring happiness to those around us. A word of encouragement. Kind words. An offer of hospitality.
Perhaps I must remember to ask myself at the end of each day the words of Heather Small: what have you done today to make you FEEL proud?
My son, his mate and I enjoy watching the comedy series "Miranda" in which Miranda's friend (and employee) often holds up a mask of Heather Small and mimic her singing "What have you done today to make you FEEL proud?"
Yesterday I went to bed thinking that I really toted up well.
First, a meeting with fellow social scientists outside academia. It was a group I started – by accident – some years ago and now it has grown, nearly 400 members! Was able to encourage those present.
Then on the way home – my train, for which I was careful to buy a first class ticket to ensure a seat after a tiring meeting, was cancelled – I was squashed into a Tube train whereupon a man with a beard, long hair, a very large ring in his nose, dirty finger nails, on a walking stick asked my fellow social scientist and myself whether the train was going to MK.
He, too, was supposed to be on my cancelled train, but got shoved into this other train instead.
My colleague got off the train but this man – let's call him Mick – leeched on to me. Meanwhile husband was on the phone trying to get 'live' information on the internet and telling me how to get home.
We were directed to make a change at station X at which anxious people were trying to get information as to how to travel. The platform staff were trying to be helpful but they, alas, did not seem to have the up-to-date information.
The electronic board said 17:15 was "on time" whereas I was told on the phone (and another passenger apparently knew too) that it was cancelled. What to do?
Husband on phone said, go to platform 3. Train due in. I walked over to platform 3 as quickly as I could while Mick hobbled along, trying to keep up.
More confusion on this platform. Even bigger crowd. Mood still harmonious though. People were anxious, not angry. Londoners are used to such delays. Unlike in Singapore, a train that is delayed by six minutes does not get reported in the papers.
Husband on phone, "There should be a train coming in at 17.19. It's the late-running 16:44. Get on that one."
I could hear on radio of staff on platform receive the information from control at a station upstream, "Train leaving that platform, should be at station X soon."
Husband on phone, "Your 17:19 should be arriving any second now. You might need to push your way in. I'll hang on to make sure you're on."
Me, "No. If I need to push in I need both hands. Call back in five minutes."
Train on platform. Mick said, "O no! It's one of those trains with a big drop from the platform. I made sure Mick got onto the train and followed." We actually found seats across each other.
Husband on phone, "Are you on?"
Me: "Yes."
Husband, "Your train should arrive at 17:32. I'll be at the station to pick you up."
Mick continued to make conversation with me across the train. Other passengers looked on with interest. Was tramp-like Mick harrassing this tiny Chinese woman? I felt they were all watching to make sure I was alright.
The man next to Mick was clearly an ex-Gurkha. He wears a uniform with a badge "Security" emblazoned on it. (A number of ex-Gurkhas are in the security sector in the UK.)
Girl next to me got off. Mick came to sit next to me. Mick had been very keen to tell us on the first train that he could not wait to get home to his flat in MK. He had gone to London for a "demo" for animal rights.
I asked him where he lived before MK. He uhmmed and arhed which suggests that he had just been taken off the streets, or released from supported housing (for mentally ill?), or even perhaps from prison, but he was "doing well". I had, as if on auto-pilot, put on my CAB hat and wanted to make sure that he was being looked after as well as looking after himself.
So the questions came fast: why the walking stick? Orthoarthritis since he was 16 or 17. How old is he? About 39. Is he taking his medicine? He stopped because the pain comes back one the drugs wear off. He just bears with the pain." I thought, "Hmm, should I ask if he was on cannabis?" Time and place for everything, my dear. The train is not the right place.
Is he with a GP? Which council is looking after him? Does he get to do much? So I learned that he gets "lonely, you know" and he repeated how pleased he was to be travelling with such good company. Earlier he had given me his number so that my vegetarian colleague could call him. Now he tells me I should put his number on my phone, too.
No, I won't, I said. "Why not?" It's falling apart. "O! But you'd put it in your next phone." I didn't commit.
Then I said he should stop smoking. Told him I could smell it a mile away. What a waste of money. "I know, but I have cut down a lot," and threw me a sheepish look.
He told me he is into art (I really hope it's art, and not graffitti). I said he should make himself useful, do something with his art. "Do something nice for someone every day."
He said he tries to do that, indeed. Mick might smell, but he speaks very good English, and very polite. If indeed he was on cannabis his intellect had only be slightly dulled by its use.
We reached our station at the end of the line and was thrown off the train. I walked away quickly, wishing him a safe journey home. He waited as I went through the gates to say "Goodbye!".
I think Mick was chuffed that two complete strangers (describing us as "very pleasant ladies") trusted him enough to continue a conversation with him. Would he do something to make himself useful? I don't know and might never know. But I certainly hope so.
Outside my "chauffeur" was waiting patiently and we got home, had a short break and we were off to a church fireworks party.
There we met PO and his dad. PO has just lost his mum. His dad had been married for nearly 60 years. Put another way, he had been married for longer than I have been alive.
For Christmas "dinner" we usually gather people we know who have no close family to go to, or people who are new to the country. So a number of nationalities have graced our table at Christmas.
[What would Jesus do? In the parable of the banquet the rich man invited those who were not likely to reciprocate his invitation. This is also partly a result of my own experience of Christmas in this country as a single person. Friends went home to their families and I was on my own, lonely and very cold.]
We had asked PO and his dad this time knowing that the first Christmas after the death of a loved one is always difficult. PO's dad was not sure whether he wanted to accept the invitation just incase he wanted to be able to have a cry. Later on he grabbed me by the shoulders and said "Christmas. Thank you for the invitation. Yes, we will be there."
Tears welled up and he gave me a long, long hug. I comforted him as I have comforted others by confessing that it took me four years before I could speak of the death of my father without crying.
When we left the party – husband was "smoke damaged" by then , from being the "lighter" of fireworks – PO's dad gave me another long hug, and still more tears.
At the end of the day I took stock and thought: It does not take much to bring happiness to those around us. A word of encouragement. Kind words. An offer of hospitality.
Perhaps I must remember to ask myself at the end of each day the words of Heather Small: what have you done today to make you FEEL proud?
Friday, September 02, 2011
Parents who (don't) try: Three cases
On Thursday mornings before I set out for my stint at the local CAB my son often tells me, "Hope you don't get too many benefits cases."
He knows how I detest having to deal with benefits clients who say, "I'm entitled to this. Do this for me. NOW."
Today I was incensed that a client has had his benefits stopped. This man is a refugee from an African country. He has four young children. He was on unemployment benefits and housing benefits because of that.
He decided that he needed to improve his English and signed up for a college course (ESOL Intensive) and did so well that he passed his exams before the end of his course. However as a result of the 15 hours he was studying, plus some mistake made by some civil servant (who turned this into 16 hours), he was deemed "unavailable for work" and therefore his JSA was stopped, leading to his Housing Benefits (which pays his rent) being stopped as well.
Now his landlord is threatening eviction because he has insufficient funds to pay his rent.
A man tries to improve his language skills to improve his chances of finding employment and he is penalized. Now it is going to take at least 50-100 civil servant hours, I imagine, to set it right.
Who really benefits from this? The civil servants, paid by your and my taxes, who are making sure that they still have jobs to go to.
Then my husband tells me he was in a similar situation many, many years ago and took the council (or relevant government department) to the tribunal and won. They then awarded him a fat cheque for arrears in his benefits.
His defence: If they could find him a job he would leave the (accountancy) course he was studying to take up the post. As they could not, he was going to improve his chances of being an accountant instead of sitting at home to watch TV. (He later had a successful career in finance.)
In other words it was OK for someone to receive JSA and vegetate at home. As soon as they try to improve their employment chances they get penalized.
Clever system, innit?
Case 2. Mother with four young children, running wild. A fellow volunteer was trying to help the mother but the children were taking turns to be difficult. The oldest, about eight years old, was trying, but failed, to keep control.
Our reception room was empty. I told the five-year-old to sit on one chair. I told the four-year-old to sit on another chair in another corner. I told the oldest responsible sister to sit in another corner.
I gave the two younger ones colourful brochures. Obviously they could not read. I told them to "count the pages, count the different colours" on the brochures. I told them that their bottoms must remain on the chairs as their mother was being helped. I left them with no adult supervision.
A few minutes later I checked and the five-year-old was kneeling in front of it. At least he had not moved alway from the chair. I told him to get back on, and he did, unhappily. He complained that his older sister was not counting.
I retorted with I had not told her to count, did I? Older sister said she would like to read the brochure he was holding. Told five-year-old to walk over to older sister if he wished to, and give her his brochure. He did and came back to his own chair and climbed back onto it. I gave him another brochure.
I went into the interviewing room twice (when the other volunteer was out) to tell the mother that her children were sitting still and quietly, and that they would be telling her "numbers" when she goes out.
"Thanks," she said with a big smile. She looked very tired. I felt really sorry for her.
The last time I looked in before I left (to tend to my own child) after having left the children on their own, the children were all in their chairs.
I wonder if these children have ever had an adult speak so sternly to them.
Case 3. GP waiting room with my son. GP running very late. Mum with two daughters and a young son came in. We had no peace from that moment on.
At no time did the mum attempt to get her son (maybe two and a half) to sit down or behave. It was the older girl who tried to control him. They kept laughing at the things he did.
I imagine what a terror this young boy would be at school. He did not understand boundaries and the mother did not even act when he was in danger. My son nearly knocked him over when he opened the door but I saw at the last moment through the glass panel that the little boy was on the other side.
I said to little boy as I left, "Perhaps it is bottom on chair time?" The mother glared at me.
Outside my son said, "Mum, you should have let me open the door onto him. It might have been better for all present."
I think my son was right.
But what can you do for families where, culturally, the male child is obviously venerated? How soon before this boy would be bullying his older sisters? How soon before he would be making unreasonable demands and know that he could get away with it because he is THE boy in the family?
He knows how I detest having to deal with benefits clients who say, "I'm entitled to this. Do this for me. NOW."
Today I was incensed that a client has had his benefits stopped. This man is a refugee from an African country. He has four young children. He was on unemployment benefits and housing benefits because of that.
He decided that he needed to improve his English and signed up for a college course (ESOL Intensive) and did so well that he passed his exams before the end of his course. However as a result of the 15 hours he was studying, plus some mistake made by some civil servant (who turned this into 16 hours), he was deemed "unavailable for work" and therefore his JSA was stopped, leading to his Housing Benefits (which pays his rent) being stopped as well.
Now his landlord is threatening eviction because he has insufficient funds to pay his rent.
A man tries to improve his language skills to improve his chances of finding employment and he is penalized. Now it is going to take at least 50-100 civil servant hours, I imagine, to set it right.
Who really benefits from this? The civil servants, paid by your and my taxes, who are making sure that they still have jobs to go to.
Then my husband tells me he was in a similar situation many, many years ago and took the council (or relevant government department) to the tribunal and won. They then awarded him a fat cheque for arrears in his benefits.
His defence: If they could find him a job he would leave the (accountancy) course he was studying to take up the post. As they could not, he was going to improve his chances of being an accountant instead of sitting at home to watch TV. (He later had a successful career in finance.)
In other words it was OK for someone to receive JSA and vegetate at home. As soon as they try to improve their employment chances they get penalized.
Clever system, innit?
Case 2. Mother with four young children, running wild. A fellow volunteer was trying to help the mother but the children were taking turns to be difficult. The oldest, about eight years old, was trying, but failed, to keep control.
Our reception room was empty. I told the five-year-old to sit on one chair. I told the four-year-old to sit on another chair in another corner. I told the oldest responsible sister to sit in another corner.
I gave the two younger ones colourful brochures. Obviously they could not read. I told them to "count the pages, count the different colours" on the brochures. I told them that their bottoms must remain on the chairs as their mother was being helped. I left them with no adult supervision.
A few minutes later I checked and the five-year-old was kneeling in front of it. At least he had not moved alway from the chair. I told him to get back on, and he did, unhappily. He complained that his older sister was not counting.
I retorted with I had not told her to count, did I? Older sister said she would like to read the brochure he was holding. Told five-year-old to walk over to older sister if he wished to, and give her his brochure. He did and came back to his own chair and climbed back onto it. I gave him another brochure.
I went into the interviewing room twice (when the other volunteer was out) to tell the mother that her children were sitting still and quietly, and that they would be telling her "numbers" when she goes out.
"Thanks," she said with a big smile. She looked very tired. I felt really sorry for her.
The last time I looked in before I left (to tend to my own child) after having left the children on their own, the children were all in their chairs.
I wonder if these children have ever had an adult speak so sternly to them.
Case 3. GP waiting room with my son. GP running very late. Mum with two daughters and a young son came in. We had no peace from that moment on.
At no time did the mum attempt to get her son (maybe two and a half) to sit down or behave. It was the older girl who tried to control him. They kept laughing at the things he did.
I imagine what a terror this young boy would be at school. He did not understand boundaries and the mother did not even act when he was in danger. My son nearly knocked him over when he opened the door but I saw at the last moment through the glass panel that the little boy was on the other side.
I said to little boy as I left, "Perhaps it is bottom on chair time?" The mother glared at me.
Outside my son said, "Mum, you should have let me open the door onto him. It might have been better for all present."
I think my son was right.
But what can you do for families where, culturally, the male child is obviously venerated? How soon before this boy would be bullying his older sisters? How soon before he would be making unreasonable demands and know that he could get away with it because he is THE boy in the family?
Sunday, August 14, 2011
In defence of David Starkey
Wrote this piece for my friends in Singapore: my perspective of what Mr Cameron called the "sick society".
David Starkey in using the phrase "The whites have become black" has been branded a "racist".
I am no fan of Mr Starkey. As a social scientist from outside the UK, one who is not weighed down by the guilt of British colonialism (but is in fact a product of it), one who is colour-blind except when it is culturally significant, I feel that Mr Starkey is only using this statement to make a "shortcut" to what I had alluded to in my original blog piece referenced above.
There is something in the black African/West Indian/Caribbean culture/s that is preventing their younger generations from benefitting from all the resources thrown at them in the UK. The same is happening amongst a certain class of young white generations.
Taxpayers should be keen to ascertain what exactly are the factors (fatherlessness, lack of disciplinary boundaries, benefits culture, lack of role models/role model substitutes, etc) driving this and come up with solutions. And soon. Before another generation is "wasted".
To shout "racist" every time a cultural reference is made does not make the problem go away. On the contrary. This is an ostrich mentality. It stifles discussion and does no one any favours.
Put it this way, if research shows that black people are more prone to certain diseases, and further studies show that this is due to their diet, would it be racist for the researchers to flag up this problem by saying, for example, "black (or white, Chinese, Turkish, whatever) people should reduce the consumption of abc as it increases their chances of contracting xyz"?
To muzzle those who wish to spread this message by crying "racist" is to ensure that the people group concerned are forever doomed to poor health because no one would dare, or is allowed to, speak the truth.
Likewise to sweep obvious facts under the carpet on spurious cries of "racist" is to condemn a people group forever, to ensure that they would never enjoy the trappings of happiness and success now reserved for those outside this group.
Was David Starkey being racist on Newsnight last night?
If David Starkey is racist then so is everybody
David Starkey in using the phrase "The whites have become black" has been branded a "racist".
I am no fan of Mr Starkey. As a social scientist from outside the UK, one who is not weighed down by the guilt of British colonialism (but is in fact a product of it), one who is colour-blind except when it is culturally significant, I feel that Mr Starkey is only using this statement to make a "shortcut" to what I had alluded to in my original blog piece referenced above.
There is something in the black African/West Indian/Caribbean culture/s that is preventing their younger generations from benefitting from all the resources thrown at them in the UK. The same is happening amongst a certain class of young white generations.
Taxpayers should be keen to ascertain what exactly are the factors (fatherlessness, lack of disciplinary boundaries, benefits culture, lack of role models/role model substitutes, etc) driving this and come up with solutions. And soon. Before another generation is "wasted".
To shout "racist" every time a cultural reference is made does not make the problem go away. On the contrary. This is an ostrich mentality. It stifles discussion and does no one any favours.
Put it this way, if research shows that black people are more prone to certain diseases, and further studies show that this is due to their diet, would it be racist for the researchers to flag up this problem by saying, for example, "black (or white, Chinese, Turkish, whatever) people should reduce the consumption of abc as it increases their chances of contracting xyz"?
To muzzle those who wish to spread this message by crying "racist" is to ensure that the people group concerned are forever doomed to poor health because no one would dare, or is allowed to, speak the truth.
Likewise to sweep obvious facts under the carpet on spurious cries of "racist" is to condemn a people group forever, to ensure that they would never enjoy the trappings of happiness and success now reserved for those outside this group.
Was David Starkey being racist on Newsnight last night?
If David Starkey is racist then so is everybody
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sourdough Bread
After building up my sourdough starter for two weeks (details in the next post, perhaps) I was very excited about making my first sourdough loaf. The diary was cleared.
This was my starter in the morning. The volume has reduced from its evening time high, as you might have noticed from the "tide marks", but still bubbling when viewed from the top:
Left it for 10 minutes. Then decided (perhaps wrongly) that it probably needed a little more water. Added what I thought was about two teaspoons of salt, but probably much less.
Left this for about two hours and it became like this.
Waited for 2 to 3 hours for it to become like this.
Sprinkled lots of flour onto a tea towel and placed it into a casserole dish as I have no proving basket. Took the dough out and kneaded it. Asked for husband's help in getting some more flour to stop it from sticking too much. Put it first in the casserole dish. Realized the dish is too small. Got husband to bring out his grandmother's old roasting dish.
And like this from the side. Perfect, I thought. It even has a lid to keep the dough from drying.
At least 2 hours later, and I kept checking and flouring the sides of the tin, we got this.
The holes on the surface (as noted in Stevens' book) were very reassuring. From the side it appears to have risen reasonably well.
Time to turn on the oven. Whacked up the temperature to its highest. Put a roasting tin in the bottom, and a baking tray in the middle. A baking sheet would be better, but I don't have one. Boiled up water.
Then came the tricky bit - and DISASTER!
Oven came up to temperature. Removed the tray. Tried to tip the dough onto the tray. But it got stuck. Had to scrape off some dough with a spoon. What I saw on the tray was a flat, flat bit of dough, DEFlated. The tray had cooled and I reshaped the dough into something more of a loaf shape with even more flour. My heart had sunk with the dough.
Nevertheless it went into the oven and I put boiling water into the bottom roasting tin. This produced steam which is supposed to give the loaf a nice crust. The water dried out faster than I expected. So, more water next time.
20 minutes on the highest temperature and then down to 180 degrees C for another 20 minutes. It rose quite a bit -- thankfully -- in the hot oven. And finally:
We could not resist having a bit for dinner. (It was morning when I started this bread and it was dinner time when I got the loaf out).
Yup! Good size bubbles. Crust was good. A bit sour, but mostly BLAND. I really needed some 25g of salt. But as I was mixing recipes, and this is my first go, I think I can be forgiven.
We plan to eat this very rustic bread with a hearty soup tomorrow.
Would I bake another sourdough loaf? Of course -- I do have a jar of sourdough starter now. But I would probably do a few things a bit differently. Starting with using more salt to counter the sour taste.
Salt and leaven (yeast). What did Jesus say about its use in our daily lives?
This was my starter in the morning. The volume has reduced from its evening time high, as you might have noticed from the "tide marks", but still bubbling when viewed from the top:
I am trying to followed a "recipe" from Dan Lepard in a newspaper and combining that with a recipe by Daniel Stevens (River Cottage No. 3).
Emptied most of this into a mixing bowl, added 500 strong wholemeal (because I don't like eating white) flour and about 300ml tepid water and mixed into a ball.
Notice the holes on the surface.
Removed this onto an oiled surface and kneaded it for a bit. Not a lot, and returned it to the bowl.
The dish looks like this.
Then came the tricky bit - and DISASTER!
Oven came up to temperature. Removed the tray. Tried to tip the dough onto the tray. But it got stuck. Had to scrape off some dough with a spoon. What I saw on the tray was a flat, flat bit of dough, DEFlated. The tray had cooled and I reshaped the dough into something more of a loaf shape with even more flour. My heart had sunk with the dough.
Nevertheless it went into the oven and I put boiling water into the bottom roasting tin. This produced steam which is supposed to give the loaf a nice crust. The water dried out faster than I expected. So, more water next time.
We plan to eat this very rustic bread with a hearty soup tomorrow.
Would I bake another sourdough loaf? Of course -- I do have a jar of sourdough starter now. But I would probably do a few things a bit differently. Starting with using more salt to counter the sour taste.
Salt and leaven (yeast). What did Jesus say about its use in our daily lives?
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Charlie Gilmour -- what is a "privileged" upbringing?
When I read how his mum tweets about how he was being locked up for 23 hours a day, my heart bled for her.
But not for long.
Instead I found myself mulling over what is meant by a "privileged upbringing".
Was young Gilmour privileged on the basis that he has a loving mother and stepfather?
Was young Gilmour privileged because he was given every material need?
Was young Gilmour privileged to be an above-intelligent person (assuming that as he had gone to Cambridge)?
In court it was argued in mitigation that young Gilmour behaved the way he did because he faced rejection from his birth father. He was drugged up to the eyeballs when he was swinging from the Cenotaph.
Would my biographer (if I had one) also describe me as having a "privileged background"?
On the basis that my mother never worked, and never made us do any household chores. Though she was criticized by the extended family for being so, her response had always been, "I want my (six) children to concentrate on their studies."
Was I privileged because I observed sacrifice on the part of my parents?
Was my biggest privilege that of having a father for whom my every achievement was "not good enough", leaving unsaid the words "Child, you can do better. I know you can do better."?
And then I looked at my own child. Would they say, when he's 21, or 61, that he too had a "privileged upbringing"?
At this point of my life when my son would soon be out of my hands and I'm trying to find employment, I am finding that I have become quite unemployable.
The past 11 years of caring for son (and the husband who was quite ill for years) has left a big gap in my CV.
I don't mind not having a guitarist for a husband, I really don't. But in mulling over this I suddenly realized that part of me wished I could be described like Mrs Gilmour as "author", but I am not that, though I write a lot.
Like my mother who sacrificed much of her life doing the mundane things in life so that her children could focus on studies and therefore upward mobility, I realized that I have sacrificed an opportunity to develop my academic career.
Make professor at 60? No chance. Return to my alma mater to teach? Dream on.
We cannot choose our parents. (Mine turn out to have very little education but they learned to educate themselves, learned to read Chinese!)
But we can choose how we parent.
I stuck around because husband was often in too much pain to get out of bed. I had to reassure our son that Dad was OK. Then I cried my own tears of fear in private.
Then son had a spell of trouble at school. Everything was going too slowly for him. I stuck around to help him get over that difficult patch. And he is a much happier, more assured person these days.
Maybe they would describe my son as having a "privileged upbringing" after all, not because his mother is a professor, but that she did sacrifice time, career, travel, fame, whatever, so that the family could move on together.
Just as his father sacrificed his dream of retiring at 40 to play golf, and instead continued to work (despite the illness) to pay the bills.
We cannot choose our parents, but we can choose how we parent. Perhaps we should take it one step back and say, "We can choose (carefully) whom we wish to parent with."
Only then can we hope to reduce the number of Charlie Gilmours -- with or without privileged upbringings -- to ensure that we meet the needs of our children where they are.
This might be news to some: Sometimes parenting requires making sacrifices.
But not for long.
Instead I found myself mulling over what is meant by a "privileged upbringing".
Was young Gilmour privileged on the basis that he has a loving mother and stepfather?
Was young Gilmour privileged because he was given every material need?
Was young Gilmour privileged to be an above-intelligent person (assuming that as he had gone to Cambridge)?
In court it was argued in mitigation that young Gilmour behaved the way he did because he faced rejection from his birth father. He was drugged up to the eyeballs when he was swinging from the Cenotaph.
Would my biographer (if I had one) also describe me as having a "privileged background"?
On the basis that my mother never worked, and never made us do any household chores. Though she was criticized by the extended family for being so, her response had always been, "I want my (six) children to concentrate on their studies."
Was I privileged because I observed sacrifice on the part of my parents?
Was my biggest privilege that of having a father for whom my every achievement was "not good enough", leaving unsaid the words "Child, you can do better. I know you can do better."?
And then I looked at my own child. Would they say, when he's 21, or 61, that he too had a "privileged upbringing"?
At this point of my life when my son would soon be out of my hands and I'm trying to find employment, I am finding that I have become quite unemployable.
The past 11 years of caring for son (and the husband who was quite ill for years) has left a big gap in my CV.
I don't mind not having a guitarist for a husband, I really don't. But in mulling over this I suddenly realized that part of me wished I could be described like Mrs Gilmour as "author", but I am not that, though I write a lot.
Like my mother who sacrificed much of her life doing the mundane things in life so that her children could focus on studies and therefore upward mobility, I realized that I have sacrificed an opportunity to develop my academic career.
Make professor at 60? No chance. Return to my alma mater to teach? Dream on.
We cannot choose our parents. (Mine turn out to have very little education but they learned to educate themselves, learned to read Chinese!)
But we can choose how we parent.
I stuck around because husband was often in too much pain to get out of bed. I had to reassure our son that Dad was OK. Then I cried my own tears of fear in private.
Then son had a spell of trouble at school. Everything was going too slowly for him. I stuck around to help him get over that difficult patch. And he is a much happier, more assured person these days.
Maybe they would describe my son as having a "privileged upbringing" after all, not because his mother is a professor, but that she did sacrifice time, career, travel, fame, whatever, so that the family could move on together.
Just as his father sacrificed his dream of retiring at 40 to play golf, and instead continued to work (despite the illness) to pay the bills.
We cannot choose our parents, but we can choose how we parent. Perhaps we should take it one step back and say, "We can choose (carefully) whom we wish to parent with."
Only then can we hope to reduce the number of Charlie Gilmours -- with or without privileged upbringings -- to ensure that we meet the needs of our children where they are.
This might be news to some: Sometimes parenting requires making sacrifices.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
