I gathered all the necessary
documents in advance of the marathon phone call I apparently had to make to
sign on: mortgage details, P45 etc.
Jocasta was making her debut at playgroup.
I sat on a toddler chair for half an hour to ease her in and to complete all
the paperwork. Jocasta’s keyworker was kind enough to help me out of the
toddler chair. I sneaked out with a ‘call me with any problems’ gesture and
headed home to my landline. What better
use of my tiny window of free time could there be than answering a series of
inane questions about my employment history and personal circumstances. It was
beginning to feel like too many hoops to jump through to achieve a discounted
rate at the local pool. I clearly would not be entitled to any actual money, on
account of Maude’s proper job.
The questions were all pretty
predictable: when did you last work? Who lives with you? Do you have dependants
etc…
I was then struck by a question
in the section on physical wellbeing and ‘care':
‘Does anyone care for you on a
regular basis?’
I paused a little and gave an
answer that probably didn’t compute:
‘I do like to think so.’
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