03 - 09 July
A compare and contrast this week. Here is Jamie last July, one year ago, sitting in a laundry basket.
And here he is in July this year, in the same laundry basket:
Showing posts with label past. Show all posts
Showing posts with label past. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
27/52 2017
Week 27
03 - 09 July
A compare and contrast this week. Here is Jamie last July, one year ago, sitting in a laundry basket.
And here he is in July this year, in the same laundry basket:
03 - 09 July
A compare and contrast this week. Here is Jamie last July, one year ago, sitting in a laundry basket.
And here he is in July this year, in the same laundry basket:
Sunday, July 06, 2014
Dining style
Technically we don't have a dining room. We have one long main room (about 8 metres or 26ft), that sort of gradates from the TV, sofa, and wall of books at one end, through my office-like zone of computer desk, filing cabinet, shelves of ringbinders, to the end near the back door where my wheelchair and the laundry stuff lives.
Growing up, for me, dinners were always, always eaten at the table. Without exception. If you were ill, but still had an appetite for your dinner, then a concession might be made that you could put an elbow on the table to prop your weary head.
There followed a steep learning curve in my mid-late teens as I started taking some meals at friends' houses (which often meant bedsits or houseshares) and experienced the excitement of eating takeaway or ready meals from the carton, often with a plastic fork or even with fingers, while sitting on the floor, or a sofa, or a bed! I learned when someone hands you a college folder or a freebie newspaper at dinnertime it's so your lap doesn't get burned, not because they want you to read it. I learned that cushions are more comfortable but less disposable, especially in the context of sweet and sour sauce.
For their part, some of my friends were caught off-balance when they would come to my house and their plateful of dinner was placed on the table. To this day I know my mother winces at the memory of one of my sister's ex-boyfriends who would sit at the dining table with one foot on the seat of the chair, his knee up by his shoulder, and walk away as soon as his plate was empty without so much as a thank you. I've got to admit that, given the choice of which scenario I would rather be unable to cope with, I think it's better knowing how to sit and eat politely at a table.
When I moved out the first time, into a shared flat, the three of us didn't have the resources for much furniture. The part-furnished flat had come with a cooker, one bed, one ancient sofa, and one coffee table. The crockery we had scrounged was my mother's twenty-year-old "best set" that she had recently acknowledged was taking up vast amounts of cupboard space, had no cash nor emotional value, and was considerably less attractive than the new set of everyday crockery she'd just bought. A slightly bizarre situation then arose where cheap student-y meals at the flat were eaten around the coffee table, but from highly incongruous floral-patterned china.
Back at my mother's house, things had become a bit more relaxed. Some meals would be eaten at the table, others in front of the TV. Having the choice was nice, and when I moved out again, this time on my own into my tiny weeny shoebox-sized flat, I bought a cheap second-hand drop leaf table and chairs (like this) so that I could continue having that choice. The room was far too small to allow the table to open fully, but being able to open out one half of it for the duration of a meal was definitely a bonus. Not to mention that being obliged to fold it away again at the end of the meal meant it could not suffer from Flat Surface Syndrome.
With Steve, dining was not originally, an issue. I would come to stay for a week, we would spend that week mostly eating food at restaurants. He also had a folding dining table but as we discovered when we tried to use it, the leaves could not boast stability in the horizontal plane as an attribute. To press down with a knife or fork was to risk a lap full of dinner. Over time, we formed a habit of eating in front of the TV, and even bought a couple of proper, cushioned, wipe clean dinner trays to make it easier.
Only in the last couple of years did it register to me that it wasn't really easier. All through my teens and early twenties I'd felt that non-table dining was more relaxed than going to all the fuss and trouble of laying a table and sitting up straight. But now... getting older and (why not admit it) bigger and less flexible... I found that for a lot of meals it was quite awkward. Having a meal with gravy meant not being able to stretch or lean to get my drink off the floor. Leaning back meant drips on my clothes. Sharing items and condiments ended up neglected in the middle of the floor because they couldn't be reached for mid-meal. When I was tired or in pain, the plate was just one more thing to try and factor in to balancing. As for having people over for dinner, well, for anything apart from pizza it was outright embarrassing, especially when they declined a tray and didn't know about using the freebie newspaper to protect the cushion...
The table is solid mango, the chairs are solid oak and surprisingly comfortable. It's Proper Furniture. The whole lot is heavy and sturdy enough to lean on when standing and I can see it lasting well beyond the five-year warranty period. And! Sitting at this table to eat our dinner is so enjoyable. Especially for sharing foods, like bread and salad and fajita fillings, to sit with a plate in front of you and help yourself from a central dish is just better.
Of course this does mean we'll have to sort out the decor of that blank wall. And the light fitting in that part of the room is frankly tat. And I've been thinking about curtains...
Growing up, for me, dinners were always, always eaten at the table. Without exception. If you were ill, but still had an appetite for your dinner, then a concession might be made that you could put an elbow on the table to prop your weary head.
There followed a steep learning curve in my mid-late teens as I started taking some meals at friends' houses (which often meant bedsits or houseshares) and experienced the excitement of eating takeaway or ready meals from the carton, often with a plastic fork or even with fingers, while sitting on the floor, or a sofa, or a bed! I learned when someone hands you a college folder or a freebie newspaper at dinnertime it's so your lap doesn't get burned, not because they want you to read it. I learned that cushions are more comfortable but less disposable, especially in the context of sweet and sour sauce.
For their part, some of my friends were caught off-balance when they would come to my house and their plateful of dinner was placed on the table. To this day I know my mother winces at the memory of one of my sister's ex-boyfriends who would sit at the dining table with one foot on the seat of the chair, his knee up by his shoulder, and walk away as soon as his plate was empty without so much as a thank you. I've got to admit that, given the choice of which scenario I would rather be unable to cope with, I think it's better knowing how to sit and eat politely at a table.
When I moved out the first time, into a shared flat, the three of us didn't have the resources for much furniture. The part-furnished flat had come with a cooker, one bed, one ancient sofa, and one coffee table. The crockery we had scrounged was my mother's twenty-year-old "best set" that she had recently acknowledged was taking up vast amounts of cupboard space, had no cash nor emotional value, and was considerably less attractive than the new set of everyday crockery she'd just bought. A slightly bizarre situation then arose where cheap student-y meals at the flat were eaten around the coffee table, but from highly incongruous floral-patterned china.
Back at my mother's house, things had become a bit more relaxed. Some meals would be eaten at the table, others in front of the TV. Having the choice was nice, and when I moved out again, this time on my own into my tiny weeny shoebox-sized flat, I bought a cheap second-hand drop leaf table and chairs (like this) so that I could continue having that choice. The room was far too small to allow the table to open fully, but being able to open out one half of it for the duration of a meal was definitely a bonus. Not to mention that being obliged to fold it away again at the end of the meal meant it could not suffer from Flat Surface Syndrome.
With Steve, dining was not originally, an issue. I would come to stay for a week, we would spend that week mostly eating food at restaurants. He also had a folding dining table but as we discovered when we tried to use it, the leaves could not boast stability in the horizontal plane as an attribute. To press down with a knife or fork was to risk a lap full of dinner. Over time, we formed a habit of eating in front of the TV, and even bought a couple of proper, cushioned, wipe clean dinner trays to make it easier.
Only in the last couple of years did it register to me that it wasn't really easier. All through my teens and early twenties I'd felt that non-table dining was more relaxed than going to all the fuss and trouble of laying a table and sitting up straight. But now... getting older and (why not admit it) bigger and less flexible... I found that for a lot of meals it was quite awkward. Having a meal with gravy meant not being able to stretch or lean to get my drink off the floor. Leaning back meant drips on my clothes. Sharing items and condiments ended up neglected in the middle of the floor because they couldn't be reached for mid-meal. When I was tired or in pain, the plate was just one more thing to try and factor in to balancing. As for having people over for dinner, well, for anything apart from pizza it was outright embarrassing, especially when they declined a tray and didn't know about using the freebie newspaper to protect the cushion...
The table is solid mango, the chairs are solid oak and surprisingly comfortable. It's Proper Furniture. The whole lot is heavy and sturdy enough to lean on when standing and I can see it lasting well beyond the five-year warranty period. And! Sitting at this table to eat our dinner is so enjoyable. Especially for sharing foods, like bread and salad and fajita fillings, to sit with a plate in front of you and help yourself from a central dish is just better.
Of course this does mean we'll have to sort out the decor of that blank wall. And the light fitting in that part of the room is frankly tat. And I've been thinking about curtains...
Friday, June 20, 2008
Wahoo!
Remember the ongoing saga of the Tax Credits problems?
Today I checked my bank statement, as you do, and saw that on 9th June, a payment of just under £20 was made straight into my account with the reference "Working Tax Credit".
PANIC! I don't want Tax Credits! I don't want to be entangled with them at all! I have an ongoing dispute with them! Why are they putting money into my account with no explanation?!?
Straight on the phone to a chap called Bob, who had a dig through my file and found a letter, dated 3rd June, which has been sent to me, but hasn't arrived here yet. So he read out the relevant bits to me.
An overpayment was made to me in the tax year April 2004 to April 2005.
This Inland Revenue intended to recover this overpayment by reducing my Tax Credits payments during the tax year April 2005 to April 2006.
I spoilt this plan by getting sick and eventually losing my job in June 2005. So that is why, in July 2005, I got a bill for over £500, consisting of the original overpayment, minus the £20 they had already recovered by reducing the payments I'd received between April 2005 and June 2005.
Communications since then have been variations on a rather repetitive theme of:
"Give us money!"
"I don't have that much money. And even if I did, I'm not convinced I owe it to you."
"Oh. Okay. (pause) Give us money!"
However, the letter I haven't received yet apparently says that the Appeals and Complaints bunch have reviewed my case and decided that the overpayment was due to "official error" and as such has been written off. This means that the money they "recovered" between April and June 2005 was in fact my money, so I can have it back. That's what the mystery payment into my bank account was about.
I'm so relieved. I was going to blog about something very very naughty which Remploy have done, but this is so much better. I hated the idea of being in debt, I hated the idea that I had somehow incurred debt without knowing I was doing it, and the letters demanding repayment and threatening legal action were really, really upsetting. But it's all over now, and I don't have to deal with them again.
I would say I'll try not to spend all of my almost-£20 at once, but thinking about it, I've probably spent more than that in phone calls and postage and photocopying and so on during the three-year course of this dispute. Definitely worth it to not have a £500 debt over my head, though.
Today I checked my bank statement, as you do, and saw that on 9th June, a payment of just under £20 was made straight into my account with the reference "Working Tax Credit".
PANIC! I don't want Tax Credits! I don't want to be entangled with them at all! I have an ongoing dispute with them! Why are they putting money into my account with no explanation?!?
Straight on the phone to a chap called Bob, who had a dig through my file and found a letter, dated 3rd June, which has been sent to me, but hasn't arrived here yet. So he read out the relevant bits to me.
An overpayment was made to me in the tax year April 2004 to April 2005.
This Inland Revenue intended to recover this overpayment by reducing my Tax Credits payments during the tax year April 2005 to April 2006.
I spoilt this plan by getting sick and eventually losing my job in June 2005. So that is why, in July 2005, I got a bill for over £500, consisting of the original overpayment, minus the £20 they had already recovered by reducing the payments I'd received between April 2005 and June 2005.
Communications since then have been variations on a rather repetitive theme of:
"Give us money!"
"I don't have that much money. And even if I did, I'm not convinced I owe it to you."
"Oh. Okay. (pause) Give us money!"
However, the letter I haven't received yet apparently says that the Appeals and Complaints bunch have reviewed my case and decided that the overpayment was due to "official error" and as such has been written off. This means that the money they "recovered" between April and June 2005 was in fact my money, so I can have it back. That's what the mystery payment into my bank account was about.
I'm so relieved. I was going to blog about something very very naughty which Remploy have done, but this is so much better. I hated the idea of being in debt, I hated the idea that I had somehow incurred debt without knowing I was doing it, and the letters demanding repayment and threatening legal action were really, really upsetting. But it's all over now, and I don't have to deal with them again.
I would say I'll try not to spend all of my almost-£20 at once, but thinking about it, I've probably spent more than that in phone calls and postage and photocopying and so on during the three-year course of this dispute. Definitely worth it to not have a £500 debt over my head, though.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Discoveries
For various reasons, it's seemed like a good idea to start tidying up the flat a bit this week. It's not UN-tidy as such - day to day things like the dishes and the laundry and making sure there's no new life-forms in the fridge are well under control - but there's some less urgent stuff that wanted doing, like pruning my wardrobe and vacuuming under the bed.
This morning I had a wardrobe full of clothes and Nothing To Wear. Now I have five bags of clothes for my sister to go through and a wardrobe that's about a third full of everyday clothes which (with only one or two exceptions such as my one Smart Suit) I have worn and washed at least once in the last twelve months. I think this is an improvement.
I also found at least half a dozen pairs of black tights (I have kept two pairs which were still on the cardboard), a couple of bits of lacy underwear which had hidden behind my socks and still had the tags in, and three or four rather small tops which I used to wear when I was very fit and went out to dance for several hours at least once a week. I'm not even going to try to try them on, I don't think I could deal with that kind of trauma. Sister Dearest will love them though.
Having got over that little blast from the past, I started to tackle the depths of under my bed. At first it wasn't too bad, it was all stuff I knew was there. A plastic box containing my spare duvet. A pair of wings and a halo from a fancy dress competition in the aforementioned going-out-and-dancing days (*sniff*) that someone borrowed last year. A large sports bag which I have lugged around more train stations than I care to remember while on weekend jaunts to see various internet people. I could even run up and down stairs while carrying it and never missed a connection...
*sniff*
*sneezes from dust*
This didn't put me in the right frame of mind to hit The Paperwork.
There was a period, when I first got sick, where I didn't really realise what was going on and thought I just had a couple of nasty bugs and would get over it. This wasn't a happy time. When I look back now, I realise I was being ridiculous, but at the time, I thought I was making sense.
So there were a number of incidents to do with me fainting but refusing to go to hospital because I was running late for work and had clients to see and "it's just a bit of flu or something". There were also a number of times when I walked into the building where I worked and someone from another organisation took one look at me and pretty much forcibly ushered me into their car and drove me straight back home.
In these circumstances, paperwork wasn't top of my priorities. I would come in the front door, pick up my post, go up the stairs to my flat, and lie down on my bed and go to sleep, complete with my handful of post, my glasses, my coat, my bag, my shoes, everything. Stuff on the bed got pushed off the bed, and eventually underneath it.
Which is why today's discoveries were lurking there to upset me. I'm not sure what's worse. There's the stuff I do remember - handouts from work-based training I did and meetings I went to, printouts of emails, a magazine, some train tickets - which remind me of the life I used to have. And then, there's the stuff I don't remember, and it scares me a little that I don't remember it. Like, a tesco clubcard and two key fobs, still stuck to the letter they came with. The name is mine, the address is here, but I can't remember applying for it - and how can I have been too knackered to sign the card and stick it in my purse? Or an invite to a party I'm fairly certain I didn't go to. I hope I at least phoned to apologise.
I'm feeling very angry and I can't put my finger on exactly why. It's not that I want my old life back. I mean, it would be nice to not be in pain, or confined to bed so much (and it would be nice to be a size 10 again). But if giving up the pain and malaise (and excess flab) also meant giving up the friends I've made, the relationship with Steve, the steadiness I've acquired, and picking up at age 23 again, I would not do it.
I think the anger might be because the shift in pace and circumstances was not my choice. I didn't want to become unemployed, and I didn't "deserve" to get ill or do anything that made me ill. It was all completely out of my control and I hate that.
Carrying on from that, I think it's also affected by Sister Dearest. She's currently the same age I was when it all fell apart, and she *is* in control of her life, she *has* chosen to leave her job, she actively says and does things to steer her life in the direction she *wants* it to go.
Nah. I think it's mostly because I have done too much physically today. Also I have been inhaling two-year-old dust and that can't be good for you. Here's hoping I feel perkier tomorrow and that Sister Dearest enjoys my castoffs.
Oh, and good news. I have a routine doctor's appointment coming up in two weeks, and I've just found out that it will be with my actual proper GP, the lovely Dr W, rather than the smegging bloody Locum who cocked up my DLA. Hurrah!
This morning I had a wardrobe full of clothes and Nothing To Wear. Now I have five bags of clothes for my sister to go through and a wardrobe that's about a third full of everyday clothes which (with only one or two exceptions such as my one Smart Suit) I have worn and washed at least once in the last twelve months. I think this is an improvement.
I also found at least half a dozen pairs of black tights (I have kept two pairs which were still on the cardboard), a couple of bits of lacy underwear which had hidden behind my socks and still had the tags in, and three or four rather small tops which I used to wear when I was very fit and went out to dance for several hours at least once a week. I'm not even going to try to try them on, I don't think I could deal with that kind of trauma. Sister Dearest will love them though.
Having got over that little blast from the past, I started to tackle the depths of under my bed. At first it wasn't too bad, it was all stuff I knew was there. A plastic box containing my spare duvet. A pair of wings and a halo from a fancy dress competition in the aforementioned going-out-and-dancing days (*sniff*) that someone borrowed last year. A large sports bag which I have lugged around more train stations than I care to remember while on weekend jaunts to see various internet people. I could even run up and down stairs while carrying it and never missed a connection...
*sniff*
*sneezes from dust*
This didn't put me in the right frame of mind to hit The Paperwork.
There was a period, when I first got sick, where I didn't really realise what was going on and thought I just had a couple of nasty bugs and would get over it. This wasn't a happy time. When I look back now, I realise I was being ridiculous, but at the time, I thought I was making sense.
So there were a number of incidents to do with me fainting but refusing to go to hospital because I was running late for work and had clients to see and "it's just a bit of flu or something". There were also a number of times when I walked into the building where I worked and someone from another organisation took one look at me and pretty much forcibly ushered me into their car and drove me straight back home.
In these circumstances, paperwork wasn't top of my priorities. I would come in the front door, pick up my post, go up the stairs to my flat, and lie down on my bed and go to sleep, complete with my handful of post, my glasses, my coat, my bag, my shoes, everything. Stuff on the bed got pushed off the bed, and eventually underneath it.
Which is why today's discoveries were lurking there to upset me. I'm not sure what's worse. There's the stuff I do remember - handouts from work-based training I did and meetings I went to, printouts of emails, a magazine, some train tickets - which remind me of the life I used to have. And then, there's the stuff I don't remember, and it scares me a little that I don't remember it. Like, a tesco clubcard and two key fobs, still stuck to the letter they came with. The name is mine, the address is here, but I can't remember applying for it - and how can I have been too knackered to sign the card and stick it in my purse? Or an invite to a party I'm fairly certain I didn't go to. I hope I at least phoned to apologise.
I'm feeling very angry and I can't put my finger on exactly why. It's not that I want my old life back. I mean, it would be nice to not be in pain, or confined to bed so much (and it would be nice to be a size 10 again). But if giving up the pain and malaise (and excess flab) also meant giving up the friends I've made, the relationship with Steve, the steadiness I've acquired, and picking up at age 23 again, I would not do it.
I think the anger might be because the shift in pace and circumstances was not my choice. I didn't want to become unemployed, and I didn't "deserve" to get ill or do anything that made me ill. It was all completely out of my control and I hate that.
Carrying on from that, I think it's also affected by Sister Dearest. She's currently the same age I was when it all fell apart, and she *is* in control of her life, she *has* chosen to leave her job, she actively says and does things to steer her life in the direction she *wants* it to go.
Nah. I think it's mostly because I have done too much physically today. Also I have been inhaling two-year-old dust and that can't be good for you. Here's hoping I feel perkier tomorrow and that Sister Dearest enjoys my castoffs.
Oh, and good news. I have a routine doctor's appointment coming up in two weeks, and I've just found out that it will be with my actual proper GP, the lovely Dr W, rather than the smegging bloody Locum who cocked up my DLA. Hurrah!
Monday, June 04, 2007
Stop the clock
The 28 days to respond are no longer ticking, and I have some space in which to get myself packed up, back home, and mentally prepared for the clock starting again.
The commenters here have been amazingly helpful and supportive, in both a friendly and a practical sense. Thank you all ever so much. Gawd bless the internets!
Even with all that support, I don't think I have the capacity to organise my own appeal. If I did, let's face it, I would go and get a job. Luckily, the job I used to have means I knew exactly who to call - DIAL. Locally, DIAL is an officeful of volunteers who have done Welfare Rights training and a whole bunch of other stuff. Their remit is to help disabled people apply for various benefits and resources, assist in appeals, and signpost any other relevant organisations. I think there are two paid full-time employees there, one of whom is the manager. I confess that during the course of my employment I met people who seemed to think the most important part of their job was getting enough Lottery funding to extend their salaries for another year or so, and maybe to employ some friends and family as well... however this is an accusation that cannot be levelled at DIAL. They were quite possibly the most dedicated professionals I met.
So, at 9:30 this morning (Monday) I phoned them. Shock number one was that the phone was answered by one of my ex-clients. After a slight tangle of emotion (happy to hear a friendly voice who recognised me, proud he's doing so well in the placement, embarassment at having to admit "no, I'm not back at work, I'm calling as a client", confusion as my whole brain/speech/style/whatever unconsciously slipped back into Job Mode as if I was calling in a work capacity, and a touch of stress about the actual DLA business) I explained the problem.
Within a few minutes I had been told clearly and concisely what the next thing to do was. I was to call the DLA, and ask for a reconsideration. They would probably offer an over-the-phone reconsideration which I must reject, because for DIAL to help me they need everything written down. I must also ask to be sent written reasons for their decision and copies of their evidence used to make that decision. Then I should call back.
There's no landline phone at Steve's and calling any government unit first thing on a Monday morning is asking to hear the ENTIRE loop of hold music several times over - if you don't start with a headache, you'll have one by the time you get through to someone. Not something to be done from a mobile. So I called mum, who knows all my details, has the letter and so on, and offered her flowers and chocolates and Pretty Things if she'd call them for me. She agreed - being the lovely mum that she is - and did.
Less than ten minutes later, she called back. I honestly thought something was wrong. I was expecting her to say "sorry, I can't spend an hour on hold to the DLA unit because my leg's been ripped off and I really must go to hospital". I think I actually answered my mobile with "what's the matter?" But no, by some unknown amazingness she'd got almost straight through.
They did try to get her to agree to an over-the-phone reconsideration, but she explained that we were getting help from an independent organisation and needed stuff in writing. So now, I'm down for a reconsideration and they are going to send all the stuff.
I called DIAL back and they said that what happens now is that my case will be passed to another "decision maker". IF the turn-down was just because of the original decision maker having a grumpy day or trying to hit a rejection target or whatever, then we should be okay, and I should get a letter awarding me DLA at whatever level. However, IF the turn-down was on the basis of that locum's half-assed GP's Report, it could be a bit more of a problem. The clock re-starts at the date of the next decision-containing letter. Upon receiving it, I have to call DIAL immediately and arrange an appointment to start an appeal.
I've decided to try and forget about it and enjoy the next couple of days, go to the Victoria for another cream tea, and go to the knitting group here on Tuesday again, and then on Wednesday get packed and ready to go home. I figure that even with the most unlikely dazzling efficiency, they won't have a whole packet of evidence and a fresh decision ready until Tuesday, and then it will take a day or two to get to the flat, and then there's no way I'll get a same-day appointment at DIAL.
I still keep feeling nauseous though.
The commenters here have been amazingly helpful and supportive, in both a friendly and a practical sense. Thank you all ever so much. Gawd bless the internets!
Even with all that support, I don't think I have the capacity to organise my own appeal. If I did, let's face it, I would go and get a job. Luckily, the job I used to have means I knew exactly who to call - DIAL. Locally, DIAL is an officeful of volunteers who have done Welfare Rights training and a whole bunch of other stuff. Their remit is to help disabled people apply for various benefits and resources, assist in appeals, and signpost any other relevant organisations. I think there are two paid full-time employees there, one of whom is the manager. I confess that during the course of my employment I met people who seemed to think the most important part of their job was getting enough Lottery funding to extend their salaries for another year or so, and maybe to employ some friends and family as well... however this is an accusation that cannot be levelled at DIAL. They were quite possibly the most dedicated professionals I met.
So, at 9:30 this morning (Monday) I phoned them. Shock number one was that the phone was answered by one of my ex-clients. After a slight tangle of emotion (happy to hear a friendly voice who recognised me, proud he's doing so well in the placement, embarassment at having to admit "no, I'm not back at work, I'm calling as a client", confusion as my whole brain/speech/style/whatever unconsciously slipped back into Job Mode as if I was calling in a work capacity, and a touch of stress about the actual DLA business) I explained the problem.
Within a few minutes I had been told clearly and concisely what the next thing to do was. I was to call the DLA, and ask for a reconsideration. They would probably offer an over-the-phone reconsideration which I must reject, because for DIAL to help me they need everything written down. I must also ask to be sent written reasons for their decision and copies of their evidence used to make that decision. Then I should call back.
There's no landline phone at Steve's and calling any government unit first thing on a Monday morning is asking to hear the ENTIRE loop of hold music several times over - if you don't start with a headache, you'll have one by the time you get through to someone. Not something to be done from a mobile. So I called mum, who knows all my details, has the letter and so on, and offered her flowers and chocolates and Pretty Things if she'd call them for me. She agreed - being the lovely mum that she is - and did.
Less than ten minutes later, she called back. I honestly thought something was wrong. I was expecting her to say "sorry, I can't spend an hour on hold to the DLA unit because my leg's been ripped off and I really must go to hospital". I think I actually answered my mobile with "what's the matter?" But no, by some unknown amazingness she'd got almost straight through.
They did try to get her to agree to an over-the-phone reconsideration, but she explained that we were getting help from an independent organisation and needed stuff in writing. So now, I'm down for a reconsideration and they are going to send all the stuff.
I called DIAL back and they said that what happens now is that my case will be passed to another "decision maker". IF the turn-down was just because of the original decision maker having a grumpy day or trying to hit a rejection target or whatever, then we should be okay, and I should get a letter awarding me DLA at whatever level. However, IF the turn-down was on the basis of that locum's half-assed GP's Report, it could be a bit more of a problem. The clock re-starts at the date of the next decision-containing letter. Upon receiving it, I have to call DIAL immediately and arrange an appointment to start an appeal.
I've decided to try and forget about it and enjoy the next couple of days, go to the Victoria for another cream tea, and go to the knitting group here on Tuesday again, and then on Wednesday get packed and ready to go home. I figure that even with the most unlikely dazzling efficiency, they won't have a whole packet of evidence and a fresh decision ready until Tuesday, and then it will take a day or two to get to the flat, and then there's no way I'll get a same-day appointment at DIAL.
I still keep feeling nauseous though.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Knitting
Several of my online friends get a lot of enjoyment out of knitting. Most notable of these is probably Dominocat whose projects often leave me in awe. Plus, I am the honoured owner of one of those projects which is amazing.
I've considered doing knitting on many occasions, but have so far always rejected it on the basis that I am simply not creative. In "art" at school, when you were given some paper and some pencils/paints/whatever and told to create a pretty picture, I was the kid who sat there in front of a blank sheet of paper with a dopey expression. Eventually the teacher would suggest an object, and I would do my best to draw it accurately, with varying results. In later years when it was suggested that we might like to paint "interpretations" or "feelings" I was even more at sea. It made no sense to me whatsoever and it was with relief that I entered my GCSE years and was able to do straightforward academic subjects.
However, of late it has occurred to me that while I'm not creative, I am good at following instructions. I started by making a couple of soft toys from kits, like this badger. Then I picked up one of these knitting bees for something to do with my hands when I can't sleep, can't concentrate, and can't move about. I've now created several yards of bee-poo, as Steve insists on calling it, and wanted to try something just a smidgen more challenging, not to mention useful.
So I have ordered a scarf in a bag kit, containing all the necessaries - beginner's instructions, needles, and wool. The order should be processed by the end of the week and then the kit should be here about a week after that. An actual scarf may or may not occur, we shall have to see, but I'm taking the plunge.
Should it all go to plan, I will then be able to start terrifying Steve by knitting baby-clothes... ;)
I've considered doing knitting on many occasions, but have so far always rejected it on the basis that I am simply not creative. In "art" at school, when you were given some paper and some pencils/paints/whatever and told to create a pretty picture, I was the kid who sat there in front of a blank sheet of paper with a dopey expression. Eventually the teacher would suggest an object, and I would do my best to draw it accurately, with varying results. In later years when it was suggested that we might like to paint "interpretations" or "feelings" I was even more at sea. It made no sense to me whatsoever and it was with relief that I entered my GCSE years and was able to do straightforward academic subjects.
However, of late it has occurred to me that while I'm not creative, I am good at following instructions. I started by making a couple of soft toys from kits, like this badger. Then I picked up one of these knitting bees for something to do with my hands when I can't sleep, can't concentrate, and can't move about. I've now created several yards of bee-poo, as Steve insists on calling it, and wanted to try something just a smidgen more challenging, not to mention useful.
So I have ordered a scarf in a bag kit, containing all the necessaries - beginner's instructions, needles, and wool. The order should be processed by the end of the week and then the kit should be here about a week after that. An actual scarf may or may not occur, we shall have to see, but I'm taking the plunge.
Should it all go to plan, I will then be able to start terrifying Steve by knitting baby-clothes... ;)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
