I was walking back from a hospital appointment today when I crossed a road. It's really the only useful thing you can do with them as a pedestrian. I can't see what else the chicken might reasonably have been considering. Anyway, there I was, walking home with my wife from another of the lengthy series of appointments I have had at various branches of the ear, nose and throat department to see what may or may not been wrong with some aspect of the tubes clunking around up there, when I went ahead and crossed the road, and realised something was wrong.

Today, as I write, is the 13th of January. It is four months ago that the shop I worked in as assistant manager closed down. Three days later we were all made redundant, although we knew that was happening, anyway. I wasn't present on the final day, because I was celebrating the renewal of our wedding vows. That's sort of bittersweet for me, because obviously I wouldn't have gone into work on that day, but I would, all other things being equal, have liked to be there for the last day's trading of the store I had worked in for longer and more thoroughly than I have yet worked anywhere else. The only place I have consistently been based at for longer is my childhood home.

Anyway, the net result of this is that I haven't worked for a trifle under four months. I haven't started a job without being in work since I left University.It's over a decade since I've been out of work this long, and that was when I had no work experience to offer anyone. A lot has changed since then. It is pretty much a given that I will be the sole breadwinner these days (please don't get the wrong impression – there is nothing about her life that makes my wife less happy than the struggle she has finding a job) and without a regular income, I become painfully aware of the hidden costs of having a health problem. We have to keep a stock of vitamin supplements for her (and sometimes me). We have to use the right moisturisers for her sensitive (and paper thin) skin and the right products for her hair, because she reacts badly to the wrong things. Then, of course, there is the fact that for slightly dull reasons I won't bore you with, I no longer get free prescriptions. I have four regular medications, and they're not cheap, either. Don't ever let anyone tell you that sponging on benefits is easy, it really isn't.

So being a carer is tough. Being a carer on benefits is tougher. Being a carer on benefits for a wife whose depression appears to have hit a real low at the moment is rather draining. That's the problem, you see, because I'm not actively looking to walk out in front of cars, but I was mentally tired (even early in the day), and I wasn't concentrating, and frankly, I was feeling fed up. The previous evening had ended with me spending about an hour exchanging text messages with a friend who has suffered a nasty bereavement and, at the risk of sounding callous, is being a tiny bit precious about it. So I was worn out on every front. Luckily, there was nothing coming, but it was a split-second reminder to me that I needed to keep my eye on the ball.

I can't say I feel any better now than I did then. Perhaps a little, perhaps not. But focussing the mind in a fashion such as this does allow you to sift out the important bits when the inside of your brain resembles boiled candy floss. Some of the stuff you can discard, some you can file for the time being. Some of it, however, you have to keep an eye on.

Articles by benjaminpmoore Archive

benjaminpmoore

20.01.14 Front Page

Back Issue Page