Monday was a relatively productive day by my recent, shitty standards. I needed to get my landlord Glenn to sign a 'Landlord Declaration Form' that I'd been given, to pass on to those kind folks at the housing benefit office. For those lucky and, well, organised enough not to have had to scrounge a meagre existence from the state from time to time, let me tell you: it's all about housing benefit. Job Seekers allowance pails into puny insignificance when compared to the big HB. But, in order to get my grubby hands on some of that sweet cash, my landlord had to sign his name and confirm the rent I pay to him, as well as the names of the people on the tenancy agreement.
I asked if I could meet him, and he told me to come to the Hilton hotel out near Victoria Quays. I'm not quite sure why he said there, he doesn't live anywhere near the place. Maybe he wanted to look important. So off I went, into the breezy outdoors, eyes blinking at the sudden rush of light. The longer I spend unemployed, the greater the desire to curl up into a ball of my own degeneracy and wait patiently to die. But not today, no sir. I put on my smartest coat, which is kind of brown and leathery with a warm furry inside, and set off on my mission. The coat was a bad idea. I began to sweat before I'd even got into town, and my insistence on leaving EVERYTHING to the last minute had meant I had to walk much quicker than my usual, day-dreamy amble. I unzipped the jacket - a small patch of sweat had formed on my chest and my back was clammier than a vicar's handshake. I began to surreptitiously waft my t-shirt to try and get some cool air going, all the while attempting to plot a course which took me quickly to the hotel but also avoided long stretches of open blazing sunshine. All in all, it's a walk of just over a mile and a half, according to google maps, and I got there precisely 1 minute before the agreed 11.30 meeting.
I saw Glenn's shiny black mercedes parked a few spaces away from the Hilton's entrance, wiped one final swathe of sweat from my forehead and went inside. He was sat at a table in reception, and I went and said hello. We made awkward small talk, he signed the form, we shook hands and I left, to walk back into town.
And so, off I went to the First Point, your one stop shop for all things council. It's basically just a big room with a load of staff sat at desks - you get a stub with a number on it, like in Argos. You then pick a sit in a bank of chairs and await your number, like in Argos. In the mean time you sit and studiously avoid contact with all the haunted eyes of skinny mothers and tattooed, unemployed steel workers, in case they spot your soft middle-class underbelly. Like in Argos.
When my number was called I went to desk 28 and sat down, across from a kindly-looking man of about 50 called Andrew. We went through my paper work and as he waited for his system to whirr into life, Andrew sat in silence twirling, chewing and tapping his pencil. I quite like small talk with total strangers - what's the worst that can happen, ey?! - but I didn't bother today. This man had the power to give or deprive me of cash held within his busy hands, so I thought it best to leave it.
All sorted, I went home to resume my slothful existence of listening to podcasts and roaming the internet for distractions. Pissed off, and all set to spend the rest of the night punching myself in the face, I decided to begin writing a daily blog. The idea's completely ripped off Richard Herring, who's done one every day for seven or eight years, but I think it might be beneficial for me. Left to my own devices, I'll gladly spend an entire day procrastinating, getting nothing at all done whatsoever. So I'm hoping that if there's even just a blog-based witness to my life, I'll make myself busy once in a while. You'll see how it goes I guess.
And so, off I went to the First Point, your one stop shop for all things council. It's basically just a big room with a load of staff sat at desks - you get a stub with a number on it, like in Argos. You then pick a sit in a bank of chairs and await your number, like in Argos. In the mean time you sit and studiously avoid contact with all the haunted eyes of skinny mothers and tattooed, unemployed steel workers, in case they spot your soft middle-class underbelly. Like in Argos.
When my number was called I went to desk 28 and sat down, across from a kindly-looking man of about 50 called Andrew. We went through my paper work and as he waited for his system to whirr into life, Andrew sat in silence twirling, chewing and tapping his pencil. I quite like small talk with total strangers - what's the worst that can happen, ey?! - but I didn't bother today. This man had the power to give or deprive me of cash held within his busy hands, so I thought it best to leave it.
All sorted, I went home to resume my slothful existence of listening to podcasts and roaming the internet for distractions. Pissed off, and all set to spend the rest of the night punching myself in the face, I decided to begin writing a daily blog. The idea's completely ripped off Richard Herring, who's done one every day for seven or eight years, but I think it might be beneficial for me. Left to my own devices, I'll gladly spend an entire day procrastinating, getting nothing at all done whatsoever. So I'm hoping that if there's even just a blog-based witness to my life, I'll make myself busy once in a while. You'll see how it goes I guess.
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