I'm not sure why, but regardless I'm doing a pretty good impression of a sulky, petulant child today. Perhaps it's because I'm so tired, perhaps because my hip is doing a better job of hurting me than any paratrooper PT instructor could do, or just because because.
Being turned down for the Community Care Grant I applied for back at the start of February has absolutely definitely got something to do with it though.
I phoned yesterday to try and chase up what had become of the form neighbour and I spent hours filling out. After the obligatory time on hold I got through to an unusually honest lady who told me that I could try phoning back but not to bother because I wouldn't get through. The telephone software used by Jobcentre plus* is set up to allow 70 people waiting on hold to ask for application forms but only 20 for enquiries about existing applications. If you're unlucky enough to be no's 21 or 71 in the queue the system cuts you off. Politely mind, there's no swearing or anything, just a dead phone line. Which is not good for the blood pressure after endless time spent trying to press button 1 to speak to operator 2 about issue 3 dealt with in department 5 living in corridor 6 all whilst desperately trying to stop the grinding of teeth in time to tinny classical muzak. I needn't have bothered, just holding the phone to my ear is enough to make my shoulder dislocate.
The Community Care Grant was for all the specialist bits and pieces I need to take life that bit closer to living and away from existing. A proper Tempur branded memory foam mattress, a mobility scooter, ramps and a storage shed. Oh and I think we put down a specialist shower seat too. Call it a crippled wish list if you like. I certainly wasn't expecting to get funding for all those things but was hoping if I put them all down and explained why I needed them then at least part of the grant money would be awarded.
I should know better by now than to hope for anything approaching a sensible decision from the insanely bureaucratic system we currently have in the UK. If I was naive enough to believe a change in government would make any difference then I'd wait and reapply in a few months time but that would be stupid. And stupid I am not.
It seems that my grant application was turned down in February, within a few days of the social fund receiving my application. Except no-one bothered to enter the details of that application on the system. So there it sat until I managed to get through to someone this morning by employing the cunning tactic of phoning whilst Jeremy Kyle was still on TV. The very nice and also honest lady who was trying to help me explained that I would need to appeal against the decision.
The details are a little fuzzy as I was tired after a night spent dislocating on an unsuitable mattress but let's gloss over that part. It was something along the lines of the nice lady entering a special note on the system to allow me to appeal a decision that wasn't entered on the system 2 months ago. The special note was needed because to send a decision for review or appeal it has to be within 7 days of that decision being made and I'm some 2 months late.
Yes, you did read that correctly. The system is so gagged by bureaucratic nonsense that permission has to be given to appeal a decision no-one notified me or their own system of.
Of course, designing a system so hideously complicated no-one understands it, then automatically rejecting applications anyway couldn't have been the original purpose. Could it?
*who, as part of the department of work and pensions oversee all social fund applications. Confused yet?
Many of you will already have seen the news that insurance company Abacus is putting the claim of 20 year old Private Dave Tatlock under review after seeing footage of him carrying out the Carling Cup at Wembley.
Private Tatlock of 2 Para was left temporarily paralysed after being hit by 'friendly fire' in Afghanistan in July 2008. Like many soldiers Pte Tatlock was paying £56 a month to Abacus who specialise in providing insurance to the armed forces. He was expecting a £25,000 payout for the loss of use of his left foot until Abacus contacted the military rehabilitation center Headley Court to say they would be reviewing his compensation.
Doctors had originally told Private Tatlock he was unlikely to be able to walk again, but he is now able to move with the aid of a stick. "My calves don't work, my hips don't work properly, my glutes (buttock muscles) don't work properly-waist down is just messed up basically"
It seems that Abacus wanted to review the compensation after seeing Pte Tatlock walk a few steps onto the pitch unaided, even though an assistant carrying his crutch could clearly be seen next to him and the effort of those steps etched allover his face.
Bureaucrats face mountains of paperwork to climb, but rarely anything more challenging in their day to day work, so perhaps they can be forgiven for not understanding the kind of mountains most disabled people have to climb every day. Or perhaps I'm just being nice to faceless organisations who don't deserve any such kindness. It's not just Abacus who behave in such an underhanded way when refusing insurance claims, all insurance companies do that, even the one we in Britain think is supposed to protect us if we become sick or disabled-the department of work and pensions. Whilst many members of the public will be shocked at the way Abacus are treating Pte Tatlock, no disabled person who's had to claim benefits will be.
To rehabilitate as successfully as Pte Tatlock has from such severe injuries takes something no policy or claim form could ever record. Something which escapes definition but is the vital ingredient in any kind of rehabilitation. Some sort of personal characteristic which most of our injured soldiers share and bureaucrats don't.
I can't explain to you how Pte Tatlock managed to walk those few steps unaided any better than I can explain how I manage to take mine. I can tell you it has little to do with physical weakness and everything to do with mental strength, that it requires a persistence bordering on derangement and stubbornness any mule would envy. None of which are rateable in a tick box form designed by people who wouldn't know a mountain if it stared them in the face.
I asked Gangsta Guy to write something for BSS about dating a cripple. This was his response.
"It's dead good. Especially the clicky bits."
So there you have it. Date a cripple cos it's dead good it is.
Fishy and Fish moved in last year in my misguided gift to Bendycat. I must've been spending too long observing politicians as they're the only others I know who'd give someone a present that made their life worse. Poor Bendycat, it's been like having a lunchbox she can't open. Fishy and Fish were never bothered by Bendycat's taunting, it was the goldfish hate crime experience that gave them PTSD.
Like most of my pets, with the exception of Bendycat and her bendycat mum, Fishy and Fish have now moved out to their new homes. No, not to the farm Joey Tribbiani's pets go to, but to an actual other home. An improvement since that first goldfish which my father flushed down the toilet along with a story about how it would live happily ever after in the sewers. I still have occasional nightmares 30 years on about ginormous goldfish swimming up the toilet to drag me down into their oversized sewer home. After that there was another goldfish who had to go and live in a friend's pond it grew so much, then Sunny the budgie. A present for my 12th birthday Sunny terrorised the house during his short reign. He would sit on a high shelf, delighting my parents by crapping all over their bank statements and occasionally venture upstairs, usually in the early hours to wake someone up by crapping on their bed. I loved Sunny. Unfortunately he got really depressed and went to live a happier life amongst other birds in the big aviary down the road.
With that kind of track record it's no wonder Fishy and Fish the 2nd look a bit lost in their new home. They'll either be dead in a week or I'll be trying to rehome them in six months when they've outgrown it. Fortunately my lovely carer now has a nice big fishtank for Fishy and Fish the 1st to live in, where in time they may be joined by Fishy and Fish the 2nd. As for Bendycat, she'll have to work on her motor control skills as much as me if she wants the tempting little snackettes in the tank...
