Perhaps you've heard that the council caps housing benefits. There is a cut off point up to which they'll pay after which, if your rent is higher, you pay the difference. I've tended to think this is beyond shite what with the astronomical rents landlords charge, particularly for all the people on a low income or benefits.
At the hairdresser's yesterday a woman was having her hair cut who worked for the housing benefits office. and we got talking about benefits. She told me there are different rates for studios, one beds etc and different cut off points for individuals, families, single parents. She also said though that if the rent is lower than the cut off point, then the goverment gives a free £15 handout. Ooh was my initial reaction.
My phone isn't working because my service provider still hasn't come to fix it so I can't call the office to find out what the rate is for a two bed. But for argument's sake I'll take a low rental figure like £200 a week (as if) because that's what she gave me in her explanation.
This woman said if that rent is lower than the cut off point then £15 of that is disregarded. That leaves £175 for the tenant to pay. Because, she said, the goverment believes that £90 a week is enough for a lone parent to live on, money owed for rent and council tax is taken from that waged figure to make up the difference.
She claimed the £15 freebie was advantageous to landlords who can use it to raise their rents to just below the allocation, keeping all rents, effectively, high. (my one bed is £225 a week so the rent I've posted for a two bed really is incredibly fictitious)
I'm having trouble understanding this. If I were a journalist I would make it my job to understand it better. However I am a stigmum. If I do make it my business to understand, when my phone is fixed and I've gleaned rents from findaproperty.com I'll see if I can write a little something for the local rag. Otherwise I hope the Big Issue takes it up, they're good at stuff like this.
The upshot for me though, is that the government thinks £90 a week is enough to live on for basic necessities such as electricity, water, gas, council tax.... Have they tried living on it? I really am better off on benefits where I don't have to pay council tax (or rent, of course). In a council flat, my rent would be about £100 a week for a two bed. You may begin to understand why people want one, need one, why I do.
The cuttings you get at a hairdresser's, honestly. The woman asked me not to reveal who she was so I said "I won't ask your name."
Friday, 27 February 2009
Street Wardens
As we walked back from the hairdresser's last night where my boy had his barnet snipped, there were police up walking around on the second floor. As I walked into the building, they walked out and being the curious kind of girl I am, I asked them why they'd come.
The two policemen walked away but the street wardens stayed and told me they couldn't say.
"Did you come about the knife incident on the 10 year old girl last week?" I asked.
"We've heard nothing about that," they answered.
"Someone put a knife to a girl's throat in that playground there. She gave a statement but because her little friend couldn't, the police said they can't do anything."
"Right, well we can look into it for you."
"Yes, please do. I'll talk to the mum, see if she'll talk to you, but quite honestly, what needed to happen for it not to be ignored?"
They offered to walk us up to our flat (as both lifts were out) and although I didn't feel a need they insisted. I'm quite glad we passed no-one on the way up but they now know where I live and said they'd post a leaflet through my door today with their details.
I saw Peggy this morning who said they promised to do that weeks ago around all the flats. I sometimes think I've got NAIVE stamped on my forehead. I really do know better, or at least I really ought to. We'll see.
The two policemen walked away but the street wardens stayed and told me they couldn't say.
"Did you come about the knife incident on the 10 year old girl last week?" I asked.
"We've heard nothing about that," they answered.
"Someone put a knife to a girl's throat in that playground there. She gave a statement but because her little friend couldn't, the police said they can't do anything."
"Right, well we can look into it for you."
"Yes, please do. I'll talk to the mum, see if she'll talk to you, but quite honestly, what needed to happen for it not to be ignored?"
They offered to walk us up to our flat (as both lifts were out) and although I didn't feel a need they insisted. I'm quite glad we passed no-one on the way up but they now know where I live and said they'd post a leaflet through my door today with their details.
I saw Peggy this morning who said they promised to do that weeks ago around all the flats. I sometimes think I've got NAIVE stamped on my forehead. I really do know better, or at least I really ought to. We'll see.
Boxercise
I haven't been for ages. This morning I didn't want to go. I really didn't want to go. I felt hungover; my head so foggy, my body so heavy but I didn't drown my troubles last night.
My workout started by carrying the bike down the stairs as the lift's not working again. Off we zoomed to school - "Thanks for the lift mummy!"
I then stopped at the heath for a double expresso and a roll-up. Not ideal but ideal. I got to class.
BIFF BAM BOOM AAAGH
I'll go again next week. It's only £2. I really ought to go back to Bazza's Boot Camp aka Self Defence. It's very Zen.
MIND BODY SPIRIT
FOCUS
It used to be free under Surestart but it's not anymore. Still, if I can cobble my cash on cancer sticks, I can beat myself up in a good way too.
"The time has come to make a stand with all the power in your hand
You are strong and you will see a victory
Never fear you're the best, standing here for the rest
Never fear you're the best of the best of the best!"
Oh I do Power Rangers song, so many of us do....
My workout started by carrying the bike down the stairs as the lift's not working again. Off we zoomed to school - "Thanks for the lift mummy!"
I then stopped at the heath for a double expresso and a roll-up. Not ideal but ideal. I got to class.
BIFF BAM BOOM AAAGH
I'll go again next week. It's only £2. I really ought to go back to Bazza's Boot Camp aka Self Defence. It's very Zen.
MIND BODY SPIRIT
FOCUS
It used to be free under Surestart but it's not anymore. Still, if I can cobble my cash on cancer sticks, I can beat myself up in a good way too.
"The time has come to make a stand with all the power in your hand
You are strong and you will see a victory
Never fear you're the best, standing here for the rest
Never fear you're the best of the best of the best!"
Oh I do Power Rangers song, so many of us do....
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Knock knock
Council man came over. I'm tired and have a headache as a result of it so I'll be brief. He said when my lease expires I may end up in a hostel and would I accept the private rental scheme. No no no I said again and will tell you why next week. I would now, but it bores me rigid and I have said headache.
He suggested he'd tell someone to come over to help me tidy up! Initially it sounded fantastic. Of course it transpired that said person will just chuck out my stuff, wily nily and well, I don't want to get rid of my son's home made cardboard computers or his cereal packet robot and I don't want anyone else to either. I will recycle my newspapers soon.
He said my flat was a 'health and safety issue' my son 'could trip' (On what?! A piece of paper?) then asked if I had a social worker. When I said no, he asked if I was coping and suddenly I got afraid of child theft by social services and said 'absolutely fine thank you' which won't help my case for housing because it helps not to be coping at all.
Then, total numnut that I am, he asked if I was on anti depressants and I told him no. What a fool! They might take away my medical points given to me when I was. I told him I did have a cupboard full of the ones I stockpiled though should I decide to go to sleep one night when my son's at his dad's.
(I like to have a choice following my suicide contemplation a couple of years ago as I stood staring out the window that barely opens wondering how I should do it... Then a powercut, a voice in the dark, 'mummy?' I hadn't realised he was there. The experience frightened me, so much so that after I ran my son a candle lit bath, I ran myself one and added a few drops of lavender oil just to be nice to myself. Stockpiling my drugs gives me a choice. Choose life heh heh)
I can see myself coming back to my conversation with him over the next few days or weeks. When I do though, I'll bring in the people I met when I did my dissertation. I focussed on families in hostel accommodation. "Home sweet home?" I asked them all. A straightforward question doesn't always get a straightforward answer.
He suggested he'd tell someone to come over to help me tidy up! Initially it sounded fantastic. Of course it transpired that said person will just chuck out my stuff, wily nily and well, I don't want to get rid of my son's home made cardboard computers or his cereal packet robot and I don't want anyone else to either. I will recycle my newspapers soon.
He said my flat was a 'health and safety issue' my son 'could trip' (On what?! A piece of paper?) then asked if I had a social worker. When I said no, he asked if I was coping and suddenly I got afraid of child theft by social services and said 'absolutely fine thank you' which won't help my case for housing because it helps not to be coping at all.
Then, total numnut that I am, he asked if I was on anti depressants and I told him no. What a fool! They might take away my medical points given to me when I was. I told him I did have a cupboard full of the ones I stockpiled though should I decide to go to sleep one night when my son's at his dad's.
(I like to have a choice following my suicide contemplation a couple of years ago as I stood staring out the window that barely opens wondering how I should do it... Then a powercut, a voice in the dark, 'mummy?' I hadn't realised he was there. The experience frightened me, so much so that after I ran my son a candle lit bath, I ran myself one and added a few drops of lavender oil just to be nice to myself. Stockpiling my drugs gives me a choice. Choose life heh heh)
I can see myself coming back to my conversation with him over the next few days or weeks. When I do though, I'll bring in the people I met when I did my dissertation. I focussed on families in hostel accommodation. "Home sweet home?" I asked them all. A straightforward question doesn't always get a straightforward answer.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Playground bullies
They pick a child, they single them out, call them names, accuse them of false wrong doing, and exclude them. That's just the parents. Or rather one parent. I call her Ugly Mother because that's what she is. Ugly.
She told me I was negative, always talking about myself wailing "I've got problems too you know!" She's kept by her ex, not the State. She lives on a Crown, not a Council estate. She wishes there were more middle class parents in the school. God help it if they are anything like her.
She's repeatedly called my son a liar ever since I told her he'd sorted out problems with his friends - who happen to be her son and Media dad's. I thought the parents were mine, school gate speaking. Our boys were five years old at the time.
She told me to pull him out of the school. She said she'd tell her child not to play with mine. She snaps when my boy asks her if her's can come and play.
I don't know what she whittered to Media dad other than "three's a crowd, three's a crowd." But the next thing you know the man I'm getting on well with starts blanking me! My life in the playground suddenly mirrors my son's. It's surreal.
Still, Media dad is not ugly. He hasn't insulted my child, projected his bile onto him. He's still very gentle with him, even invited him round for a sleepover. Nothing short of a miracle I thought at the time but good for his son, for mine, for their relationship.
Children ey. What can you do? Particularly when they are in their 40's.
She told me I was negative, always talking about myself wailing "I've got problems too you know!" She's kept by her ex, not the State. She lives on a Crown, not a Council estate. She wishes there were more middle class parents in the school. God help it if they are anything like her.
She's repeatedly called my son a liar ever since I told her he'd sorted out problems with his friends - who happen to be her son and Media dad's. I thought the parents were mine, school gate speaking. Our boys were five years old at the time.
She told me to pull him out of the school. She said she'd tell her child not to play with mine. She snaps when my boy asks her if her's can come and play.
I don't know what she whittered to Media dad other than "three's a crowd, three's a crowd." But the next thing you know the man I'm getting on well with starts blanking me! My life in the playground suddenly mirrors my son's. It's surreal.
Still, Media dad is not ugly. He hasn't insulted my child, projected his bile onto him. He's still very gentle with him, even invited him round for a sleepover. Nothing short of a miracle I thought at the time but good for his son, for mine, for their relationship.
Children ey. What can you do? Particularly when they are in their 40's.
The School Run
"Come on, hurry up!" I say to my son. "We're going to be late!"
We leave the flat, call the lift, then go down. At the bottom there is glass everywhere. The window is still in the front door but looks as though giant snowflakes have been carved into it. Crunch crunch crunch over the million shards, we step outside and race to school, getting there as the whistle goes. The bell rings. My son doesn't give me a kiss like all the other sons do for their mammas. He never does as he says his love for me is "private".
"How are things?" I say to O's mum as I walk away. "The lift is broken in my block and I have to walk up 18 flights of stairs. I can't face it," she says. Eighteen! And I complain about seven!
She tells me there are two lifts but whilst one is being repaired, the whole system has been shut down. "Yesterday I had to carry her all the way up," she says looking down at her two year old. "I only got to the 10th and I was exhausted. Still, it's good exercise..." I laugh. "The only way we can deal with it is seeing it like that."
I get to the maisonettes, which are part of my estate and see Peggy, E&R's mum. I tell her the window's been smashed in my block. "Aye, there's a lot of care in the community folk live there. Last week one of them pulled a knife to E's throat." She called the police and E gave a statement, but because E's friend, who was with her in the playground at the time, wasn't allowed to by her own mother, the police "can't do anything." Peggy's angry but her voice is so soft. The girls are 10 years old.
I tell her perhaps the other mother was scared of the repurcussions on her own family, which is why she wouldn't allow her daughter to give a statement. Peggy thinks it over.
She says she'll tell the police that if it happens again, she'll take the matter into her own hands. "The police know me. I'm on first name terms with them at Holborn," and she laughs, embarrassed. She's quite serious though. Shouldn't one statement be enough? What needs to happen?
I round the corner to my block. A maintenance van is parked alongside the playground. "Have you come to fix the window?" I ask the man. He looks bemused, doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Come and see," I say. Kosovan dad is there waiting for the lift. "What do you think it is?" I ask them both. Earlier my son had thought it was caused by a brick and then changed his mind and said a gun.
We look at the damage, circles where the glass has seized and fractures like strands of hair that spill out of them. Repair man thinks its bullet holes. Kosovan dad thinks its probably caused by a repeated pounding with a metal rod. The lift arrives. "You getting in?" he asks.
I get home and make myself a cup of tea. The glass will be cleared up by the time the kids come back from school, our caretaker's a good man. One hopes the window will be replaced as well. That's my school run this morning.
We leave the flat, call the lift, then go down. At the bottom there is glass everywhere. The window is still in the front door but looks as though giant snowflakes have been carved into it. Crunch crunch crunch over the million shards, we step outside and race to school, getting there as the whistle goes. The bell rings. My son doesn't give me a kiss like all the other sons do for their mammas. He never does as he says his love for me is "private".
"How are things?" I say to O's mum as I walk away. "The lift is broken in my block and I have to walk up 18 flights of stairs. I can't face it," she says. Eighteen! And I complain about seven!
She tells me there are two lifts but whilst one is being repaired, the whole system has been shut down. "Yesterday I had to carry her all the way up," she says looking down at her two year old. "I only got to the 10th and I was exhausted. Still, it's good exercise..." I laugh. "The only way we can deal with it is seeing it like that."
I get to the maisonettes, which are part of my estate and see Peggy, E&R's mum. I tell her the window's been smashed in my block. "Aye, there's a lot of care in the community folk live there. Last week one of them pulled a knife to E's throat." She called the police and E gave a statement, but because E's friend, who was with her in the playground at the time, wasn't allowed to by her own mother, the police "can't do anything." Peggy's angry but her voice is so soft. The girls are 10 years old.
I tell her perhaps the other mother was scared of the repurcussions on her own family, which is why she wouldn't allow her daughter to give a statement. Peggy thinks it over.
She says she'll tell the police that if it happens again, she'll take the matter into her own hands. "The police know me. I'm on first name terms with them at Holborn," and she laughs, embarrassed. She's quite serious though. Shouldn't one statement be enough? What needs to happen?
I round the corner to my block. A maintenance van is parked alongside the playground. "Have you come to fix the window?" I ask the man. He looks bemused, doesn't know what I'm talking about. "Come and see," I say. Kosovan dad is there waiting for the lift. "What do you think it is?" I ask them both. Earlier my son had thought it was caused by a brick and then changed his mind and said a gun.
We look at the damage, circles where the glass has seized and fractures like strands of hair that spill out of them. Repair man thinks its bullet holes. Kosovan dad thinks its probably caused by a repeated pounding with a metal rod. The lift arrives. "You getting in?" he asks.
I get home and make myself a cup of tea. The glass will be cleared up by the time the kids come back from school, our caretaker's a good man. One hopes the window will be replaced as well. That's my school run this morning.
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