I know I normally write about ‘frivolous’ things like clothes and make-up. But it is my belief that intelligence and frivolity don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Today I felt the need to talk about something more important, because today… as a 28 year old professional working mother… I gave notice to leave my apartment and move myself and my son home to my parents’ house.
Today’s theme called for a two-fold blog title. The first one is intelligent (in my opinion), relevant and intriguing to an audience. The second title is one I know everyone will click on. Why? Because our media is littered with stories of “benefit scroungers” in a sustained effort by the government and the media who support it, to convince us all that “benefit bums” are what is wrong with the country, and why we’re all still in this damned recession.
None of us like benefit cheats and yet we all know at least one, especially here in the beautiful ol’ North of Ireland. You probably have a friend who owns a nice apartment they can only afford because it’s actually a “dole-drop”, with housing benefit paying the mortgage for an imaginary tenant. Said tenant is another friend who still lives at home with his wife and kids, but they’ve been claiming they were separated for years. His wife claims Disability Living Allowance (DLA) for one of those pretend *cough* I mean hard-to-diagnose illnesses. But she works cash-in-hand cleaning the local pub because she used to use someone else’s insurance number but then they found out the person had been dead 15 years…
I’ll not go on. We know all the stories. However, more recently the stories centre on a few benefits and claimants in particular with the current agenda being to garner public sympathy (and ultimately votes) for:
Except it’s not really is it. Because jobs aren’t easy to come by. Even for people crippled with debt because they went and got themselves a third level education. And if you have children there isn’t a decent childcare system to support you leaving them. And why would you turn people against a welfare system that is there to help our most vulnerable, albeit supposedly temporarily? (And in this climate, anyone of us could become that person tomorrow). Because even fraudulent claiming of benefits only costs the economy £1.2 billion compared to the estimated £30 billion we lose every year when the big rich companies evade paying tax. Or the £1TRILLION it cost us to bail out the w/bankers. And did you add in that £1.3 billion in due benefits actually goes unclaimed by people who don’t know they’re entitled/don’t apply?
We as a public will eventually believe what we are fed and it has resulted in a hardening of public attitudes towards benefits in general, to the point where a recent survey by the University of Kent’s social policy team found that 1.8 million potential benefit claimants were “too scared” to seek the help they were entitled to from the State. To the point where benefit fraud culprit-catching has increased by 40% over the past two years and there’s still a huge backlog of suspected people to get through. Why? Because everyone is tattle-tailing on each other!
So why does it all matter to me?
I’m not jobless. I’ve had a job non-stop since the week my National Insurance card landed on the door mat 12 years ago. My first jobs was at KFC in case you’re interested – good times, good money, good food! But I digress. It matters to me because, like so many of my peers, I now find myself at a point in my life where I’m struggling in the recession and THE.STATE.WON’T.HELP.ME.
So I have to pack my bags, put my tail between my legs and go home. Feeling like a failure.
I used to be able to look down my nose at benefit claimants. Back when I’d worked my way up from graduate to fulltime manager, out-earning my friends by a long shot. Back then I wasn’t entitled to anything but I didn’t need it. And then I was left a single parent by a philanderer. And then my son was diagnosed with special needs. And then I was using all my leave to take him to appointments and working all night to make up the time. And just before I had a nervous breakdown I made the difficult decision to move to a part-time job. Career-suicide for the ambitious, yes. But it would save my mental health and it could really help my son. I didn’t have to leave work completely, I would still be a taxpayer. I would still have a purpose and thus, my pride.
This decision was only made possible because I could get some supplementary help from the State. A little child benefit here, a little housing benefit there (I’m saying “little” because we’re talking little £20 notes here!), some Tax Credits to top up my earnings (not equivalent to what I was paying out in tax) and some disability allowance for my son. I could just about live with this level of State help. As a drinking, smoking, motorist it had always been my belief that Mr Cameron couldn’t do without my propping up of the economy anyway. And there was a lot I wasn’t getting, like help with childcare (my son needs to be cared for by family. You can’t use childcare vouchers to pay people you are related to).
And then bit by bit, every inch of help is taken away until you find yourself struggling. Now, now, put that violin away! I am by no means “on the breadline”. I know that I am fortunate in the grand scheme of things. But there is a difference between living and existing. When you can only buy new clothes once you’ve sold enough old ones on eBay. When you can’t afford anymore than one takeaway per week and you sacrifice it on the weeks that your child wants to visit the cinema because you can’t do both. When you have a drink with friends less than a handful of times in a year. When your budget per person at Christmas is £12 because that’s all you could save to make sure Santa could come. When you haven’t had so much as a weekend away in 4 years. When you had to stop smoking to save up the money to get your hair cut for the first time in a year.
That is existing. And that is all I was doing. I bet Mr Cameron never had to eat beans on toast for his dinner…
I didn’t study at university for this! I don’t work for this! I didn’t pay into the State for over a decade for this!! But having a place to call your own is a luxury the State feels you shouldn’t have and so, back home we go. And I’m not the only one. According to recent polls, almost a third of people my age are back home with at least £9,000 of debt – excluding mortgages. Living at home won’t be free of course. Our parents are there to support us, they’re not there for us to prey on like blood-sucking bats. And it won’t be easy for them or for me to share our space. But it will give me the grace to save some money for a year or so. Given the state of the housing market I’m not exactly sure what I’m saving for. Perhaps I’m hoping that when my son grows up a little, my options for returning to fulltime employment might open a bit. That I might one day again be able to pay my way and provide the lifestyle that both of us deserve. Without help. Because I don’t want help. I’m not sure anybody really does, deep down.
But when we need it, temporarily, it should be there.
Because if the lack of help forces us to fail, to breakdown and crumble, we become just another number in the dole queue, another desperate person on the housing executive list.
An even bigger “burden to the taxpayer” than we were back when we asked for a little help.
Yours Sincerely,
Single-Mother-Benefit-Claimant-Scourge-Of-Society-Paying-For-Your-Mistakes
#GenerationY
Lx
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