Somewhere in the midst of showing people around my house this morning, watching them leave with some of my belongings, and tagging and pricing what’s left in preparation for the Big Open House Sale on Saturday the 18th (which is exactly what it says on the tin, in case you have been living under a rock for the latter half of the week and aren’t aware that in under two weeks time I will be selling almost everything I own to catch up with rent arrears and utility bills…)
Somewhere in between all of this, I applied for two different jobs this afternoon. Still going, still plugging away, writing and rewriting copious job applications, tailored to personal specifications and personal qualities and attributes; Insurance Assistant, Pensions Officer, Childcare Workforce Development Administrator; anything that I fulfil at least half of the person specification for on the Working For Essex website that won’t take more than three hours of travel a day all in, and I’ve sent an application in. Ten months in, at god knows how many job applications a week, and here I am, selling everything to keep my home.
A part of me is admittedly reluctant, as I’m only in my current situation due to benefit cock-ups when I went back to work in the first place. Without working, and once Housing Benefit and Income Support kicked in, all of the bills were paid, on time. When I went back to work, part time and on a minimum wage, the benefits stopped until I could produce 12 weeks of proof of pay. After three or four weeks of paying extortionate childcare fees, travel to work, and no rent, the work had to stop before I lost my home. Threats of Section 21 notices (ending tenancy contracts and eviction due to non payment of rent), unsympathetic Letting Agents, and irregular hours meant that something had to give. Regular readers of my blog will remember the euphoria when I was offered the job at the pub, and the heartbreak when I found myself having to leave. Since then, I have volunteered full time, in an effort to fill the gap on my CV, make myself attractive to potential employers, keep my skills fresh and my head busy. But still it seems that nobody wants me. I wrote to James Duddridge, MP for Rochford and Southend East, outlining my situation and asking for suggestions. None came. If he hasn’t got the answers, who has?
The point I am making with the house sale is not ‘I’m on benefits, woe is me’ but rather; ‘I went back to work to try to get off benefits and back into work, and was royally screwed in the process. Now I have to sell everything I have, in order to keep my home.’
So to every Echo reader that read page 7 of Fridays Echo and turned their nose up, thinking I’m a scummy single mummy, scrounging off the state; the job applications go in daily. I went back to work. It’s not for lack of wanting to work or trying to work or whining about the lack of it; it’s about a system that doesn’t support people from benefits into work, unless of course you count Workfare schemes…
Ms Jack Monroe, Southend on Sea.