Strange Times are These / Frazzled

The person in the mirror bears an uncanny resemblance to a ‘befuddled smurf’. Only less cute. My reaction? There is none and that’s a problem.

A friend pops round to prise me out of the front door, carefully wheeling the bike out without running over a stubbornly static cat… Why do they do that?… A few dozen strokes of the peddles and that all pervasive bone – numbing cold begins to dissipate. A few more and my jumbled thinking starts unknotting itself into logical straight lines again. It’s all terribly inconvenient this turning blue lark; a reaction to the temperature dipping just a few degrees to 17°C. Barely any warning. No time to prepare.

Every day that succeeds despite all the odds (like this one), is incredibly precious. It’s often due to that cherished community of friends that get to know each other well enough to ‘read’ situations like these. Once out and about, you get to savour each moment, together with all of those senses that were destined to be dulled within four walls. The same walls that had threatened to close in on you had you not made it out that day. Almost a blessing within a curse.

The park is swarming with people and dogs who look as contented as I feel right now. Inexplicably, the latter are almost outnumbering people, several jogging alongside super-fit owners dressed in snazzy running gear, although this isn’t Florida you know! Most, however, are being resolutely marched in the same direction. It’s terribly funny overtaking a strapping guy with a miniature dachshund dangling from the end of a delicately held lead. Meanwhile, he’s in conversation with a petite woman being dragged along by an overenthusiastic yet unidentifiable giant of a dog… Eventually, the presence of marshals sporting ubiquitous fluorescent yellow jackets, indicates an ‘official’ explanation for this strange state of affairs. You too can enter a ‘Dog Jog’ if you happen to have one to hand. I’ll make do with 2 wheels thank you.

The African Savanna paid an unwelcome visit here recently. Conspicuous by their absence were the hordes of thirsty beasts craning their necks toward diminishing watering holes, as presented to the younger versions of us on TV by David Attenborough. He spoke in dulcet tones, with warmth, wisdom and intelligence and in doing so, the seemingly mundane was made magical. We watched families of elephants, far less dysfunctional than our own, gently taking care of each other. A spider skilfully spinning its gossamer web had us transfixed, although we had never stopped to watch them that closely in our own gardens. We experienced plants as dynamic beings for the first time through the use of time lapse photography. Particularly memorable for me was an unremarkable looking fish ‘on the pull’. With more artistic talent in one flick of a fin that most of us will ever have, he spent hours creating extraordinary mandalas in the sand.

My one wish is that he (meaning Sir Attenborough and not the randy fish) had told us consistently about the terrible damage we were doing to the environment. I guess that focusing on the ‘prettier’ aspect of nature is similar to tourists being lured away from ugly poverty or bloggers trying to glamorise their lives whilst barely hinting at the things that threaten to fuck them up completely. But give credit where it’s due, he helped several generations wake up somewhat to the unspoiled natural world, whilst the addictive lure of smart technology threatens to put that same potential back to sleep. Hopefully, we will start to use it more effectively to rouse each other out of our modern day stupor. I can’t watch those nature documentaries any more though.

Did you know that this summer was England’s hottest on record? I felt just a little smug having had a continental holiday experience for free! In the Midlands, we experienced only 10% of our average rainfall for the month of July since records began, dryer than in 1976, the yardstick by which all other droughts now seem to be judged. 1976, was the year that Dennis Howell became the first ever ‘Minister for Droughts’, as water almost ran out completely. With that in mind, it was rather surprising how little we were inconvenienced in Brummy Land. It was down to a grumble-worthy, extra-soggy winter and spring that saved our bacon, providing us with those all-essential reserves. Meanwhile, topped-up bird baths and shallow dishes of water left in gardens everywhere were crucial in helping our wildlife to survive. Unlike us, their places of residence lack access to the mains water supply. Apologies for stating the obvious. However, the pressures of modern life have a habit of disconnecting us from such realities.

It’s beyond me how anyone can simply sit down every day to write. If I’m not uplifted, my writing becomes flat and mechanical and eventually grinds to a screeching halt. Even knowing that some of the most important aspects of our lives that are worth mentioning are about as uplifting as concrete balloons, this permanently sore head is unwilling to have a debate on the matter. Somehow, I need to get past the added difficulty of disclosing an emotive subject to an unseen audience.

An internet search for inspiration comes up with this quote from Elizabeth Gilbert of ‘Eat, Pray and Love’ fame:

“My suggestion is that you start with the love [for writing] and then work very hard and try to let go of the results. Cast out your will, and then cut the line. Please try, also, not to go totally freaking insane in the process. Insanity is a very tempting path for artists, but we don’t need any more of that in the world at the moment, so please resist your call to insanity. We need more creation, not more destruction. We need our artists more than ever, and we need them to be stable, steadfast, honourable and brave – they are our soldiers, our hope. If you decide to write, then you must do it, as Balzac said, “like a miner buried under a fallen roof.” Become a knight, a force of diligence and faith. I don’t know how else to do it except that way. As the great poet Jack Gilbert said once to a young writer, when she asked him for advice about her own poems: “Do you have the courage to bring forth this work? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say YES.”

I’m in no way daring to think of myself as any more than an amateur at this game and hardly see myself either immersed in the activity enough to go mad, or charismatic enough to carry a banner of hope or glory for the rest of humanity. However, some small part of me is prompted to start digging again for more of those supposed gold nuggets of experience. I’m going to have to find a humongously large spade.

In conversation recently with a professional journalist, I discovered that, amongst other things, he writes about his own personal experience living with Multiple Sclerosis. On the subject of ‘disclosure’, he was quite insistent that a personal narrative is not simply to timidly recount our life affirming moments, but also to be candid about the difficulties we encounter. He gave the impression that the word ‘we’ referred to people with disabilities. Or maybe I just chose to see it that way, as disability is not the only thing that defines either of us.

“How can I be taken seriously enough to say everything that’s going on, when most of what’s wrong with me is invisible?”, I protested.

“You’d be surprised,” he answered. “I was in the same situation as you until recently”. At this point, he gave me a persuasive look that seemed to imply that he had been successfully writing about his own journey for a long while, without mishap. So, biting the bullet so to speak, I shall explain my absence from the page this time around and ask for your patience.

For the second time in three years, I’m having to go to court because assessors for the DWP (department for work and pensions) working for the private company Capita, are claiming that I’m lying about being ill. For the second time I am apparently ‘not in pain’, ‘never have been in pain’ and can ‘walk normally for [an incidentally unobserved] 250 metres with no problem’. And the list of inaccuracies in their report goes on and on, page after page.

Two years ago, a tribunal court judge and doctor eventually overruled a similar report, after studying my medical notes and evidence at great length. The whole experience was humiliating. It included another two court appearances prior to this one that left friends and myself traumatised, barely able to cope and in tears. But at least my ability to stick up for myself improved a little.

Rather than the government saying “We’re so sorry. We just haven’t got the money. Let’s find another way”, the reality is deeply disturbing. Now, assessors are entering people’s homes and claiming that they are lying about their disabilities and illnesses. Particularly if they are not visible. The money that is being denied to genuine disabled and ill people is not being ploughed into education, social care, the NHS or other deserving causes. Instead, it is being paid to Capita and two other private companies, Atos and Maximus.

Data published by the Daily Mirror shows that Atos and Capita made combined earnings of more than half a billion pounds for carrying out their flawed assessments from 2013 – 2016. It is rumoured that they receive £1,500 for each person denied PIP (personal independence payment) and up to £300 for each person denied ESA (employment support allowance). Which doesn’t have to be returned if the courts overrule them. Meanwhile, it seems that the DWP are relying on a significant proportion of people being too unwell and having insufficient support to lodge complaints and to go through the appeals process.

The DWP, it appears, have ultimately modelled their handling of disability claims on that of ‘Unum Provident’ Corporation in the States and its infamously damaging scheme to deny legitimate disability claims in order to meet their financial goals. Following suit, the DWP / Atos have apparently paid Unum Provident millions more pounds to use their ‘Medical Insurance Payout Denial Model’ as devised by a delightful chappie by the name of McKinsey, where consultants and medical advisors employed by them are biased and trained to look for ways to deny claims.

God preserve us is all I can say.

In this time of uncertainty, dishonesty and lack of accountability from the very people we are supposed to be able to trust, it makes it harder to manage already difficult situations. The most essential thing that any of us can do to take care of ourselves is to value and seek out Peace of Mind, if we are still fortunate enough to have the resources to do so. That includes finding enjoyable absorbing pastimes, like blogging in my case. You might say that it ‘floats my boat’. It’s rather a shame though, when you end up having to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to bail the blasted thing out every time a metaphorical storm hits.

Please don’t think that it’s all doom and gloom in my corner of the city. At the same time each evening, if you were to sit with me in the front bay window, quiet and still, you would get to share an event that oddly, even the cats seem to treat with reverence. A few months ago, fox cubs were born on the banks of the nearby river. Alerted by the outside light’s motion sensor, one of them comes to retrieve a small amount of food scattered barely a metre away. (The conventional wisdom, you see, is to encourage foxes to scavenge elsewhere to establish adequate territories for themselves.)

I’ve not found a better way to be totally immersed in the moment, letting all those other worries drift away before sleep.

“There are good ships and wood ships, ships that sail the sea, but the best ships are friendships, may they always be!” – Irish Proverb

“Strange times are these in which we live when old and young are taught falsehoods. And the one man that dares to tell the truth is called at once a lunatic and fool.” – Plato

“Do whatever floats your boat, as long as you don’t sink mine!”– Unknown