Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done this quite literally on occasions.
This time though, I mean it metaphorically. I have been distracted from writing yet again. This time it is because my house is literally falling apart. The chimney is causing damp; the render on the walls is cracking and coming away; the gutters may be a problem, too.
What can I do about it? I certainly can’t focus on literature when my daughter is getting cold and the walls are damp. I lost my job a few years ago, so I haven’t got the funds to sort it, personally. The UK government offers grants to people in my position, with solid-walled homes. They offer 40% of the cost, if you are on qualifying benefits: the rest you have to stump up yourself. Typically, the cost is £10k or more. This means you need to have £6k+ going spare. If you have much more than this, you will not qualify for the qualifying benefit. Do you get my drift? Essentially, they are saying that they are helping the poor and at the same time cutting down the UK’s carbon footprint. Essentially, they are not doing either.
I’m not saying: “Oh, pity me!”. I have my pride. I am saying that my daughter and I face a long cold winter…again.
There are thousands like myself in the UK. Similar numbers are homeless, bless you all (even though I know you can’t read this, my thoughts are with you). Our politicians say that everybody needs to tighten their belts, because times are rough. The Conservatives (in power) have hit the poor hard in this country and say that they must hurt them more, for the benefit of ‘hard-working people’. I don’t see any signs of their own suffering.
Sorry, folks. It just gets my goat that David Cameron and his smug buddies are continually hitting out at the weakest, knowing that they have no voice with which to defend themselves. I’d like to see him spending the next few months in my home and on my budget…perhaps we can do an exchange as in Eddy Murphy’s ‘Trading places’? Maybe then he would realise what a completely self-aggrandised buffoon he actually is.
Come on then, Dave, me old son, what do you say to that?
Are you up for it? Of course you’re not and never will be. The closest you get to hardship is finding that the waiter has served you a ’98 vintage instead of the ’96 you asked for. My heart bleeds for you.