Once I realised that writing letters to the company was taking me round and round in circles, the next stage was to get a bit stroppy. This is the 'Letter before Action' stage. Basically you set out your position, and tell them to hand this letter to their insurers. You then given them a set period of time - usually seven days from the date of this letter - otherwise you will commence proceedings without further notice.
I did this, and waited. On the seventh day (because these companies love their brinkmanship games) a letter arrived by special delivery. It stated that the insurers said they were not liable, and enclosed £100 worth of gift vouchers.
I sent them back. There was no way I would ever set foot in that store again even if hell froze over. And gift vouchers were a bloody cheek because essentially they were trying to force me to shop with them again. No way.
With my covering letter returning the vouchers I advised them to get new insurers who actuallly understood the legal obligations. And then I went online to start finding out what I needed to do.
Firstly, you need the small claims court. This deals with claims up to £5000 in value. You start proceedings usually in the town where the incident happened and if you are suing a company you must give the address of their registered office. There is plenty of advice about this on the internet - but go to the horse's mouth and use the official websites. You can also download the forms you need to complete.
A word of warning about the forms, you cannot save them although you can fill them in on the computer. You will need three copies for the court - one is kept by the court, one is served on the defendant and the other is returned to you.
There is a fee - but if you are in receipt of certain benefits this is waived. So do check everything out and don't be afraid to phone the court if you're not sure. I'm not putting links on this blog because forms and advice change so quicklly. But it is very easy to find.
And then you wait. The defendant has a set time to respond and and acknowledge receipt. If they don't then you enter judgement and automatically win your case. In my case, the defendant waited a while and then acknowledge receipt, after which there was a further period within which they had to put in their defence.
I was, to be honest, looking forward to this. I really wanted to see how they were going to try and defend the indefensible. They didn't. Shortly before the deadline someone from the company actually phoned to try and 'sort things out.'
This was a definite improvement. But of course, most of us are not used to negotiating like this, and it's easy to feel forced to back off in a way that we don't feel when we're writing letters. It's very important to stick to your guns and realise that you are in the driving seat here. You still have the 'adverse publicity' card tucked in your sleeve (which is why I said not to use it earlier). No firm wants bad publicity... and of course the court is open to the public, which means that once things go to a hearing you cannot stop bad publicity. (Admittedly journalists don't usually attend small claims hearings, but they can if they want to and if you invite them to....- that's a very important bargaining chip!)
I'll deal with how to handle phone calls and negotiate in my next post. Remember - we are not helpless. People just like us to think that we are.
Thursday 24 November 2011
Sunday 6 November 2011
Disability Discrimination - part 3
Of course it's all very well to end a post with 'It's time to fight back.' But how do we actually do it? How do we get some kind of justice when nobody is willing to help?
Our greatest strength is realising that we are on our own. Forget all the internet solicitors who advertisse No Win No Fee or that they will fight disability discrimination. Like the EHRC (Equality and Human Rights Commission), they too cherry pick what they will and will not handle. Indeed one solicitor advised me to go to arbitration as it was 'the only way' and refused to handle my case 'because it wouldn't bring in enough money for the firm.'
Even firms that HAVE handled high profile disability discrimination cases in the past, only seem to be interested if there is some union involvement. And if like me, you are a lone shopper, that makes you feel cut adrift, like a small sailor in an even smaller lifeboat.
One important thing to remember is that you have only sixth months from the date of the alleged discrimination to take the matter to court. So, for the time being, I continued writing letters to the parent company of the shop in question. They never disputed what I claimed, and offered first £25 in gift vouchers and then £50. At the same time there seemed to be very little understanding of what the disability discrimination legislation meant.
Disabled customers are, first and foremost, customers. They should therefore be valued. They spend money. You cannot treat them like perverts and lesser beings and seriously expect them to return bearing gift vouchers and wagging their tails.
But - as I had already found - nobody wanted to know. Nobody wanted to help - not even the people whose job it apparently was to deal with such cases.
So - what to do next?
Well, my first advice is NEVER go to the press. Not at this stage. Adverse publicity is a very useful tool, but you have to know when to choose it. It is definitely best held back as a bargaining chip. And of course, you have to be prepared to go the whole distance.
I suspect that there is a lot of bluff on the part of these big businesses. They know that most people won't pursue the matter. Therefore they can get away with it. By this stage it wasn't just about what had happened to me, it was about what would happen to other disabled customers if I didn't take a stand.
Nobody was listening properly. I had to do something. The courts seemed to be my only option.
In my next post I am going to take you through it step by step.
Our greatest strength is realising that we are on our own. Forget all the internet solicitors who advertisse No Win No Fee or that they will fight disability discrimination. Like the EHRC (Equality and Human Rights Commission), they too cherry pick what they will and will not handle. Indeed one solicitor advised me to go to arbitration as it was 'the only way' and refused to handle my case 'because it wouldn't bring in enough money for the firm.'
Even firms that HAVE handled high profile disability discrimination cases in the past, only seem to be interested if there is some union involvement. And if like me, you are a lone shopper, that makes you feel cut adrift, like a small sailor in an even smaller lifeboat.
One important thing to remember is that you have only sixth months from the date of the alleged discrimination to take the matter to court. So, for the time being, I continued writing letters to the parent company of the shop in question. They never disputed what I claimed, and offered first £25 in gift vouchers and then £50. At the same time there seemed to be very little understanding of what the disability discrimination legislation meant.
Disabled customers are, first and foremost, customers. They should therefore be valued. They spend money. You cannot treat them like perverts and lesser beings and seriously expect them to return bearing gift vouchers and wagging their tails.
But - as I had already found - nobody wanted to know. Nobody wanted to help - not even the people whose job it apparently was to deal with such cases.
So - what to do next?
Well, my first advice is NEVER go to the press. Not at this stage. Adverse publicity is a very useful tool, but you have to know when to choose it. It is definitely best held back as a bargaining chip. And of course, you have to be prepared to go the whole distance.
I suspect that there is a lot of bluff on the part of these big businesses. They know that most people won't pursue the matter. Therefore they can get away with it. By this stage it wasn't just about what had happened to me, it was about what would happen to other disabled customers if I didn't take a stand.
Nobody was listening properly. I had to do something. The courts seemed to be my only option.
In my next post I am going to take you through it step by step.
Thursday 3 November 2011
Disability Discrimination - part 2
So... what to do? The first thing you discover in a situation like this is that nobody wants to know. And I mean nobody. My first stop was the Equalities and Human Rights Commission. I mean, that's their job, isn't it? So I phoned up several times, and asked for help. I could, I was told, arrange for mediation if the other side agreed. The arbitrator would make recommendations but these weren't binding. Given how I had been treated so far, anything that wasn't as binding as a length of anchor chain was a definite no-no. I asked whether the EHRC could support me in taking the case to Court. 'They are very choosy about which cases they handle.'
That's right. The body of bureaucrats set up to help people like me in situations like this are very choosy. Well, good for them. That's lovely to know. They aren't actually interested in justice per se. They can afford to cherry pick.
I began reading everything I could find online. I had been discriminated against, that was certain. I wanted a proper apology, and so far all I had received was a letter that made it clear that disabled people were totally reliant upon the 'initiative' of whoever happened to be working in the shop at the time.
Well it's not good enough. Shops etc.have an anticipatory duty to look ahead and work out what might be required by a disabled person. Needing help in a changing room isn't rocket science. Many women take their partners into shops with them when they're buying clothes. It's hardly unfathomable that some of them will need help. And why can't they have help from a male partner?
So - I went back to the shop again. This time I set out my position, explaining:
That's right. The body of bureaucrats set up to help people like me in situations like this are very choosy. Well, good for them. That's lovely to know. They aren't actually interested in justice per se. They can afford to cherry pick.
I began reading everything I could find online. I had been discriminated against, that was certain. I wanted a proper apology, and so far all I had received was a letter that made it clear that disabled people were totally reliant upon the 'initiative' of whoever happened to be working in the shop at the time.
Well it's not good enough. Shops etc.have an anticipatory duty to look ahead and work out what might be required by a disabled person. Needing help in a changing room isn't rocket science. Many women take their partners into shops with them when they're buying clothes. It's hardly unfathomable that some of them will need help. And why can't they have help from a male partner?
So - I went back to the shop again. This time I set out my position, explaining:
As things stand, no, I do not have the confidence to visit your store again because I do not think you really understand what has happened here. How can you write of ‘any necessary retraining action’ when you do not seem to appreciate what it is you are retraining staff to do? I don't think any of them had ever heard of disability discrimination, or if they had, they clearly felt it was something that actually operated against the disabled person. They certainly were not aware of requirements to avoid disability discrimination, and from your reply today I am not entirely sure that you understand it either.
As time progressed I began to realised how the disabled are really discriminated against - not just by shops but even abandoned by the very bodies that were set up to help them. It's disgusting. It's demoralising. And it got worse.
And this is why I am recounting the whole sorry saga, blow by blow, because I want people to realise that they don't have to lie down and take this. They shouldn't lie down and let these big firms get away with it. It's time to fight back.
Wednesday 2 November 2011
disablity discrimination - trying to get justice
People often think that not discriminating against disabled people means they are getting an unfair advantage. 'Why should a disabled person have a blue badge in order to park near the supermarket? They look perfectly fine to me...'
And that of course is the main part of the problem. Everyone is an expert. Everyone can tell, just by looking for a few moments, whether or not someone is ill, sick or disabled.
Except they can't. Even doctors have taken years to get anywhere near a diagnosis for my problems, and the book is still open on that one. So don't presume you can look at me and decide what is wrong. You will only see me on a good day. On bad days (and there are many of those) you will not see me at all because I will not be able to leave the house. In fact, I am lucky if I can get out of bed.
Anyway, the whole purpose of equality legislation is to allow disabled people the same opportunities as everyone else to get on with their lives. To shop, for example. That's where my particular problem started.
Shops often forget that disabled people are their customers too. They may provide a nice large disabled changing room, and then not understand that you need help in order to use it. And in my case - horror of horrors! - my helper was my husband. A man.
I've set out the whole sorry saga here.
What happened next was quite an education. You see, as I've mentioned before, one of the greatest weapons that governments use against people is ignorance. People assume that because there is disability legislation in place that it will automatically kick in when something like this happens. The fact is - it doesn't. If you want justice, you have to go and fight for it. And when you're feeling like me, that's often the last thing you feel like.
Anyway, I wrote off to the shop in question, and explained what had happened. Their reply was pretty incredible:
I was deeply concerned to learn of the incident that occurred following your recent visit to our Cardiff store and I can only apologise for any inconvenience this has caused for you and your husband.
I have discussed this matter in full with the Store Manager. She has advised me that it not the usual policy to let males enter the fitting room area while they are waiting for their partner or friend. However, under certain circumstances, if a customer requests for them to assist in the fitting room, our staff should use their initiative and make allowances to accommodate them.
So... where next? Watch this space. It's going to take several posts to tell it all.
Sunday 16 October 2011
Nothing's really changed....
Years ago, back in the 1970s there was some effort made to try and get an extra benefit for blind people, to take into account that they would never be able to drive and would incur extra expense with taxis, etc., because public transport was erratic, expensive and often didn't take them where they needed to go anyway. However successive governments never even made a move to do anything about this. Those who were campaigning were incensed - how could politicians just ignore such a need?
The answer came, not from a politician, but from a television programme which sent a few journalists out to interview people. It discovered that most people believed that the registered blind already received a special benefit, along, some said, with free televisions. The government didn't need to do anything because only a 'few' people wanted it; the remainder assumed they already had it.
I see a lot of parallels today. The disabled don't need help, we are told, because stores, offices etc are already eager to help them. They have made allowances, installed lifts etc. Well, some have. Some still haven't. Some don't want to and never will. Some install disabled changing rooms and then put staff in charge who make it impossible for the disabled to actually use them.... and on it goes.
I am currently in the midst of a disability discrimination claim against a large - very large - retail chain. The level of discrimination and sheer incompetence - which I will describe fully when it is finally settled - is staggering. A recent survey by the Leonard Cheshire Foundation found that only 2% of people who suffer descrimination ever take it further.
Guess what? I'm one of that 2%.
The answer came, not from a politician, but from a television programme which sent a few journalists out to interview people. It discovered that most people believed that the registered blind already received a special benefit, along, some said, with free televisions. The government didn't need to do anything because only a 'few' people wanted it; the remainder assumed they already had it.
I see a lot of parallels today. The disabled don't need help, we are told, because stores, offices etc are already eager to help them. They have made allowances, installed lifts etc. Well, some have. Some still haven't. Some don't want to and never will. Some install disabled changing rooms and then put staff in charge who make it impossible for the disabled to actually use them.... and on it goes.
I am currently in the midst of a disability discrimination claim against a large - very large - retail chain. The level of discrimination and sheer incompetence - which I will describe fully when it is finally settled - is staggering. A recent survey by the Leonard Cheshire Foundation found that only 2% of people who suffer descrimination ever take it further.
Guess what? I'm one of that 2%.
Saturday 15 October 2011
Getting Red Arrows....
I've always believed it is important to challenge sloppy journalism. So I often comment on posts that really should never have got past their editor. You know the sort of thing I mean, articles that spew out poor facts or made up facts or which basically judge a person on trial before a verdict comes in.
Lately I've been getting lots of red arrows, just for writing the truth. But then the truth is a funny old thing, isn't it? People don't really like the truth - they pay lip service to it, of course, but they don't like it. Sometimes they even shoot the messenger.
Well, in certain newspapers, those that spew out prodigious amounts of lies and nonsense, I take the red arrow badge as a mark of honour. I stood up for the truth and the best they could do was to try and mark me down.
Will I give up though?
Don't be silly.
Lately I've been getting lots of red arrows, just for writing the truth. But then the truth is a funny old thing, isn't it? People don't really like the truth - they pay lip service to it, of course, but they don't like it. Sometimes they even shoot the messenger.
Well, in certain newspapers, those that spew out prodigious amounts of lies and nonsense, I take the red arrow badge as a mark of honour. I stood up for the truth and the best they could do was to try and mark me down.
Will I give up though?
Don't be silly.
Sunday 5 June 2011
Living in the Real World
Politicians have to make decisions that affect the lives of others every day. That's part of their job. And sometimes such decisions will be unpopular. But at the very least, those affected by the decisions have the right to expect that those making them will have some idea what they are doing. Not so with cuts to disability benefits however.
Today in the Daily Mail we read how Mr Cameron is hiring a personal trainer to help him deal with stiff muscles and joints.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1394417/Keep-fit-Dave-calls-250-hour-physio-tummy-trim.html
This trainer is apparently costing our intrepid leader £250 per hour. PER HOUR. That's pretty close to the amount paid per month to someone claiming DLA at the highest rate for mobility (and you need more than stiff muscles and joints to qualify for that) and the lowest level of care. Imagine.... one hour against a whole month. Better still, take time to do some maths here. If that trainer worked just 8 hours a day, five days a week for four weeks it would be £10,000! Staggering stuff, eh?
Yet this government has presided over - and encouraged with all its 'government sources' leaks - the most shameful villification of the sick and disabled in living history. Even though DLA is given to those who can work (as well as those who cannot) it is to be replaced by a personal independence payment.
Think about it. Personal Independence Payment. Well, it all depends what you mean by independence, really, doesn't it? Because the sort of independence one can buy on £275 per month is quite different from the sort of independence you might expect for £250 per hour.
We're all in it together? Live in the real world, Dave.
Today in the Daily Mail we read how Mr Cameron is hiring a personal trainer to help him deal with stiff muscles and joints.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1394417/Keep-fit-Dave-calls-250-hour-physio-tummy-trim.html
This trainer is apparently costing our intrepid leader £250 per hour. PER HOUR. That's pretty close to the amount paid per month to someone claiming DLA at the highest rate for mobility (and you need more than stiff muscles and joints to qualify for that) and the lowest level of care. Imagine.... one hour against a whole month. Better still, take time to do some maths here. If that trainer worked just 8 hours a day, five days a week for four weeks it would be £10,000! Staggering stuff, eh?
Yet this government has presided over - and encouraged with all its 'government sources' leaks - the most shameful villification of the sick and disabled in living history. Even though DLA is given to those who can work (as well as those who cannot) it is to be replaced by a personal independence payment.
Think about it. Personal Independence Payment. Well, it all depends what you mean by independence, really, doesn't it? Because the sort of independence one can buy on £275 per month is quite different from the sort of independence you might expect for £250 per hour.
We're all in it together? Live in the real world, Dave.
Friday 3 June 2011
I've been away
Well, not anywhere nice unfortunately. Just unable to muster any sort of energy to do very much at all. Meanwhile the level of bile and general hysteria is rumbling on but I seem to have noticed a little sea change. Perhaps it is to do with the fact that the vile face of disablism is finally becoming apparent. Look at the awful scenes in the Panorama programme.... then look at the 'care home' providers who ripped everyone off and then left the very people they were supposed to help facing homelessness. Because this is what happens when you are driven by money. People no longer matter.
Are people finally beginning to see the human face behind the disablism? Few of those young people brutalised and tormented at Winterbourne would eveyr be able to work.... are they just scroungers? Workshy? Or can people finally see the human face? I live in hope.
In Ancient Rome the Stoics argued against slavery not because it was wrong per se (in their eyes), but because it was morally harmful to the slave owner. That's an interesting take on it.... do you think we could persuade the Con Dem coalition to drop some of their planned cuts on the grounds that it will be morally harmful to them (rather than just physically harmful to us?) Now there's a thought.
I'm not going to hold my breath though. I can't. It hurts too much.
Are people finally beginning to see the human face behind the disablism? Few of those young people brutalised and tormented at Winterbourne would eveyr be able to work.... are they just scroungers? Workshy? Or can people finally see the human face? I live in hope.
In Ancient Rome the Stoics argued against slavery not because it was wrong per se (in their eyes), but because it was morally harmful to the slave owner. That's an interesting take on it.... do you think we could persuade the Con Dem coalition to drop some of their planned cuts on the grounds that it will be morally harmful to them (rather than just physically harmful to us?) Now there's a thought.
I'm not going to hold my breath though. I can't. It hurts too much.
Saturday 23 April 2011
More bile in the Daily Mail
You know I used to think that Bel Mooney was a sensible sort of agony aunt. I don't expect to agree with everything another person says, but I felt that she tried to be compassionate, to see the other person's point of view. And then I read this article : http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1379846/Thats-spirit-The-bestseller-believes-warmth-heart-transform-old-age.html
Now admittedly this isn't an agony aunt page, it's about how to grow older without actually falling to pieces, so I couldn't help but wonder how this bit of bile was pushed into the text...After extolling the longevity of people on a Japanese island, Bel writes:
'Contrast that with Britain, where it was revealed this week that 80,000 of us are too fat or too dependent on drugs or alcohol to work. Think about that. Slovenly zombies who have given up on dignity, but claim benefits in order to buy more disgusting stuff to shorten their useless lives. There’s mostly no excuse for their attitude — although, of course, people will always try to explain it away.'
Well, that's nice to know, isn't it? Apart from struggling to cope, going blind and feeling my independence slowly slipping away, I am a slovely zombie who has given up on dignity and has a useless life.
And notice the authorial 'we' : '80,000 of us' although I bet Bel doesn't really include herself in their number.
Well, don't forget as I am so fond of telling anyone who will listen - everyone is just a step away from disability. The funny thing is that no matter what they thought of the disabled before, they don't half change their tune afterwards.
Now admittedly this isn't an agony aunt page, it's about how to grow older without actually falling to pieces, so I couldn't help but wonder how this bit of bile was pushed into the text...After extolling the longevity of people on a Japanese island, Bel writes:
'Contrast that with Britain, where it was revealed this week that 80,000 of us are too fat or too dependent on drugs or alcohol to work. Think about that. Slovenly zombies who have given up on dignity, but claim benefits in order to buy more disgusting stuff to shorten their useless lives. There’s mostly no excuse for their attitude — although, of course, people will always try to explain it away.'
Well, that's nice to know, isn't it? Apart from struggling to cope, going blind and feeling my independence slowly slipping away, I am a slovely zombie who has given up on dignity and has a useless life.
And notice the authorial 'we' : '80,000 of us' although I bet Bel doesn't really include herself in their number.
Well, don't forget as I am so fond of telling anyone who will listen - everyone is just a step away from disability. The funny thing is that no matter what they thought of the disabled before, they don't half change their tune afterwards.
Friday 22 April 2011
Blaming the disabled....
They have demonised us, trivialised the conditions that cripple us... and now they want to blame us. We shouldn't really be surprised.
But that doesn't mean we should just take it. The powers that be have always liked the idea of dividing people into deserving and undeserving groups. In Victorian times the deserving poor could have a pat on the head, a bowl of gruel and a quick and uncomfortable stay in the workhouse. Those considered undeserving on the other hand got nothing apart from a swift kick in the bum (and maybe a stay in the local lock-up for good measure.)
These notions - that the sick, the poor and anyone else who is considered an inconvenience - can be set to one side and ignored for the most scurrilous of reasons, should have been long since discredited. The fact that they are resurfacing and worse, supported by the people who are supposed to be running this country, is worrying.
Who gets to decide these things? Anyone who is disabled shudders when you mention ATOS who are clearly not up to the job of even deciding factual matters such as disability. Can you imagine what would happen if we added a moral dimension to this? The tick-box mentality would run amok....
Question 1. How could you have prevented your disability? (Note that they will not ask 'Could you have prevented it - that will be a foregone conclusion.)
And no matter how you answer, you will be doomed because the whole thing is so badly skewed. And nobody is capable of using even a smidgen of common sense.
A while back, I applied for a disabled person's bus pass - I need to be able to take a companion with me when I travel. I was told I did not qualify any more because the criteria had changed. Oh, they had changed all right. It is no longer enough to be partially sighted, or blind, and have mobility problems, you now have to have a visual AND hearing disability as well.
I pointed out that visual problems are highly disabling when you need to travel, but was told there was nothing anyone could do, because it was 'the guidelines.'
So I asked, 'If the guidelines were changed to allow bus passes only to people with two heads born in Alpha Centaruii, would you go aloong with that too?'
There was a confused silence. 'Well, no....'
'And the guidelines allow for the application of some discretion?'
'Well, yes....'
'Then why can't you apply it in this case?'
I got my pass eventually. But I can't help wondering how many others just give up.
But that doesn't mean we should just take it. The powers that be have always liked the idea of dividing people into deserving and undeserving groups. In Victorian times the deserving poor could have a pat on the head, a bowl of gruel and a quick and uncomfortable stay in the workhouse. Those considered undeserving on the other hand got nothing apart from a swift kick in the bum (and maybe a stay in the local lock-up for good measure.)
These notions - that the sick, the poor and anyone else who is considered an inconvenience - can be set to one side and ignored for the most scurrilous of reasons, should have been long since discredited. The fact that they are resurfacing and worse, supported by the people who are supposed to be running this country, is worrying.
Who gets to decide these things? Anyone who is disabled shudders when you mention ATOS who are clearly not up to the job of even deciding factual matters such as disability. Can you imagine what would happen if we added a moral dimension to this? The tick-box mentality would run amok....
Question 1. How could you have prevented your disability? (Note that they will not ask 'Could you have prevented it - that will be a foregone conclusion.)
And no matter how you answer, you will be doomed because the whole thing is so badly skewed. And nobody is capable of using even a smidgen of common sense.
A while back, I applied for a disabled person's bus pass - I need to be able to take a companion with me when I travel. I was told I did not qualify any more because the criteria had changed. Oh, they had changed all right. It is no longer enough to be partially sighted, or blind, and have mobility problems, you now have to have a visual AND hearing disability as well.
I pointed out that visual problems are highly disabling when you need to travel, but was told there was nothing anyone could do, because it was 'the guidelines.'
So I asked, 'If the guidelines were changed to allow bus passes only to people with two heads born in Alpha Centaruii, would you go aloong with that too?'
There was a confused silence. 'Well, no....'
'And the guidelines allow for the application of some discretion?'
'Well, yes....'
'Then why can't you apply it in this case?'
I got my pass eventually. But I can't help wondering how many others just give up.
Monday 18 April 2011
The horrors of trying to go shopping....
Last Friday my husband suggested taking me out to buy some clothes. I was looking and feeling a bit better, and if I felt up to it, he was happy to come with me. My clothes are in a shocking state (being large I am limited in my choice of retailers) and I desperately needed new trousers. We got a train, and the shop I needed was just a kick in the bum from the station itself. Great. What could go wrong?
Well, the shop, (It-that-shall-not-be-named) for a start. Yes, they allowed me to use the disabled cubicle, but my husband was not allowed to come in to help me because...'We've had complaints about men in the changing rooms.'
Okay, could he at least sit outside (they used to have a settee nearby where people could wait) so I could show him my clothes to check if they were okay? I explained my vision is very bad and I wouldn't be able to see for myself.
No, that wasn't possible either. Because.... 'they'd had complaints about men sitting NEAR the changing rooms.'
In fact, they'd even had complaints about men being anywhere near the entrance to the changing rooms. The best they could offer was that my husband could sit in the shoe department and wait for me there. Which meant I had to change by myself, and then leave the changing room to show him my clothes - highly embarrassing when most of them didn't fit. I was made to feel as though I had walked into their shop with some sort of pervert in tow.
I tried to explain that I needed help changing, but the assistant was unmoved. 'I'll help you,' she said. Only I don't like strangers seeing me undressed. I doubt she would like it either.
Anyway, while I was struggling to manage by myself (I really did need new clothes or I wouldn't have bothered) some other women came in, soon followed by their adult sons who stood at the door of the changing rooms for ages, chatting away.
I queried this - why could they be present and not my husband when I needed him - and was told that 'they were the customer's children.'
I explained that my companion was my husband of many years and this seemed like one rule for some and a different rule for others. I was then told that my husband could also stand at the entrance to the changing room now (only of course, with two adult males already there, there wasn't any room.)
Well, I struggled with the clothes.... needed a pair of trousers in a certain size but nobody could possibly look in the store room to see if they had any. I found three tee shirts I liked and asked them to put them to one side and I would definitely buy them later.... only of course, when I went to get them, someone had removed them and nobody knew where they now were. (You might think they had been returned to the clothes rails, but no.... heaven knows where they went, outer space, probably.)
So the upshot of all this is that I spent ONE AND A HALF totally useless hours, struggling in that shop, my husband made to feel like a peeping tom, and came away with nothing.
Except of course, the resolve never to go there again.
This story has a happy ending.... eventually I visited another shop and the difference couldn't have been greater. Nothing was too much trouble, trousers were found in the stock room, and I came away with exactly what I wanted.
Now why the hell couldn't the first shop - It-that-shall-not-be-named - have been more like that?
Well, the shop, (It-that-shall-not-be-named) for a start. Yes, they allowed me to use the disabled cubicle, but my husband was not allowed to come in to help me because...'We've had complaints about men in the changing rooms.'
Okay, could he at least sit outside (they used to have a settee nearby where people could wait) so I could show him my clothes to check if they were okay? I explained my vision is very bad and I wouldn't be able to see for myself.
No, that wasn't possible either. Because.... 'they'd had complaints about men sitting NEAR the changing rooms.'
In fact, they'd even had complaints about men being anywhere near the entrance to the changing rooms. The best they could offer was that my husband could sit in the shoe department and wait for me there. Which meant I had to change by myself, and then leave the changing room to show him my clothes - highly embarrassing when most of them didn't fit. I was made to feel as though I had walked into their shop with some sort of pervert in tow.
I tried to explain that I needed help changing, but the assistant was unmoved. 'I'll help you,' she said. Only I don't like strangers seeing me undressed. I doubt she would like it either.
Anyway, while I was struggling to manage by myself (I really did need new clothes or I wouldn't have bothered) some other women came in, soon followed by their adult sons who stood at the door of the changing rooms for ages, chatting away.
I queried this - why could they be present and not my husband when I needed him - and was told that 'they were the customer's children.'
I explained that my companion was my husband of many years and this seemed like one rule for some and a different rule for others. I was then told that my husband could also stand at the entrance to the changing room now (only of course, with two adult males already there, there wasn't any room.)
Well, I struggled with the clothes.... needed a pair of trousers in a certain size but nobody could possibly look in the store room to see if they had any. I found three tee shirts I liked and asked them to put them to one side and I would definitely buy them later.... only of course, when I went to get them, someone had removed them and nobody knew where they now were. (You might think they had been returned to the clothes rails, but no.... heaven knows where they went, outer space, probably.)
So the upshot of all this is that I spent ONE AND A HALF totally useless hours, struggling in that shop, my husband made to feel like a peeping tom, and came away with nothing.
Except of course, the resolve never to go there again.
This story has a happy ending.... eventually I visited another shop and the difference couldn't have been greater. Nothing was too much trouble, trousers were found in the stock room, and I came away with exactly what I wanted.
Now why the hell couldn't the first shop - It-that-shall-not-be-named - have been more like that?
Sunday 10 April 2011
My Working Life
I noticed that Sue had done a post on this in her Diary of a Benefit Scrounger blog. I thought I would share my experiences with you all here.... a bit different maybe, but that's the thing about disability. As I am so fond of saying, we are all only a step away from it.
I was always healthy. I was always strong. I was something of a tomboy, stocky, broad shouldered, capable. It never mattered what came my way, I coped. I even coped to help other people, especially family. I can't say I ever did jobs that I particularly loved, at least not when I was younger, but I worked hard, and I always put a lot into whatever I did.
I married, was widowed (had to nurse my young husband for several years.... but hey, I was strong, I coped) and remarried. Had a large family. Never had any money. But I turned bringing up my children into a full time job. I coped. I could make a bag of flour into an endless supply of cakes, pastry, even bread. I learned to quilt (bought oddments in jumble sales and made quilts to keep the kids warm.) I worked when I could (as a music teacher) from home, and I made a little extra that way.
My husband became ill and had to give up work following a car crash. But I told him not to worry about giving up his job - we would cope. I would do whatever it took just to help him get better. And I did. I sold home-made sandwiches. I sewed for people. I knitted for people. We had little money, no car, but we made sure the children had happy lives, plenty of walks and picnics, all free or extremely cheap.
Then one of my children became ill. So ill that she never went back to school again. But I coped. I home educated her as far as I could, helped her even get a degree when she started to recover years later. (I don't have a degree myself, so that was no mean feat.)
Slowly, I noticed I wasn't feeling quite right. I call it the Salami Syndrome. Slice by tiny slice, so that you don't really notice until things are really bad. It went on for years. I fought it. I had to. People depended on me. I never went to the doctors for myself, onlly for other family members. But I kept going.
Until..... there comes a point when you cannot ignore it any longer. Things were badly wrong. It took years to get a diagnosis and even now I'm not convinced they've got it completely right. Because I had a rare disease there is little research into it, and some doctors dismiss it with a 'Well I've never heard of it' remark which puts hell in me. If they haven't heard of it they should bloody well go and look it up, don't pretend that because they don't know about it that's it, it can't exist!
So.... nothing remarkable in my life. Hard work. Caring for others. Seeing my own health go downhill. From being strong and capable, I am suddenly the one who needs looking after.
But worse than that, I have become one of the Others. The workshy. (Actually I'm still self employed, but hey, who cares? Workshy sounds better.) One of those languishing on benefits (Actually I have never languished in my life. People who know me say that I wouldn't know how to.)
But I'll tell you something. Something that people like those in power don't realise about people like me. Our sickness toughens us up. It tempers us in the fire. We have nothing to lose. After all this, do they really think I am just going to roll over and give in?
No. I won't give in to my health problems, and I won't give in to anything else either. And certainly not to a bunch of gormless politicians and penpushers of all parties who believe that I am a problem that needs sweeping under the carpet.
For them I have only one thing I really want to say. 'F*** you. And the horse you rode in on.'
I was always healthy. I was always strong. I was something of a tomboy, stocky, broad shouldered, capable. It never mattered what came my way, I coped. I even coped to help other people, especially family. I can't say I ever did jobs that I particularly loved, at least not when I was younger, but I worked hard, and I always put a lot into whatever I did.
I married, was widowed (had to nurse my young husband for several years.... but hey, I was strong, I coped) and remarried. Had a large family. Never had any money. But I turned bringing up my children into a full time job. I coped. I could make a bag of flour into an endless supply of cakes, pastry, even bread. I learned to quilt (bought oddments in jumble sales and made quilts to keep the kids warm.) I worked when I could (as a music teacher) from home, and I made a little extra that way.
My husband became ill and had to give up work following a car crash. But I told him not to worry about giving up his job - we would cope. I would do whatever it took just to help him get better. And I did. I sold home-made sandwiches. I sewed for people. I knitted for people. We had little money, no car, but we made sure the children had happy lives, plenty of walks and picnics, all free or extremely cheap.
Then one of my children became ill. So ill that she never went back to school again. But I coped. I home educated her as far as I could, helped her even get a degree when she started to recover years later. (I don't have a degree myself, so that was no mean feat.)
Slowly, I noticed I wasn't feeling quite right. I call it the Salami Syndrome. Slice by tiny slice, so that you don't really notice until things are really bad. It went on for years. I fought it. I had to. People depended on me. I never went to the doctors for myself, onlly for other family members. But I kept going.
Until..... there comes a point when you cannot ignore it any longer. Things were badly wrong. It took years to get a diagnosis and even now I'm not convinced they've got it completely right. Because I had a rare disease there is little research into it, and some doctors dismiss it with a 'Well I've never heard of it' remark which puts hell in me. If they haven't heard of it they should bloody well go and look it up, don't pretend that because they don't know about it that's it, it can't exist!
So.... nothing remarkable in my life. Hard work. Caring for others. Seeing my own health go downhill. From being strong and capable, I am suddenly the one who needs looking after.
But worse than that, I have become one of the Others. The workshy. (Actually I'm still self employed, but hey, who cares? Workshy sounds better.) One of those languishing on benefits (Actually I have never languished in my life. People who know me say that I wouldn't know how to.)
But I'll tell you something. Something that people like those in power don't realise about people like me. Our sickness toughens us up. It tempers us in the fire. We have nothing to lose. After all this, do they really think I am just going to roll over and give in?
No. I won't give in to my health problems, and I won't give in to anything else either. And certainly not to a bunch of gormless politicians and penpushers of all parties who believe that I am a problem that needs sweeping under the carpet.
For them I have only one thing I really want to say. 'F*** you. And the horse you rode in on.'
Thursday 3 March 2011
joining the dots....
Yesterday was a trip to the hospital. Despite my compromised immune system (and that of other patients on similar medication) we had to share the waiting room with a little boy with chicken pox. The potential for that to go pear shaped doesn't really bear thinking about. Shingles in my situation could be fatal. I did mention it to one of the nurses who got me out of the waiting room (I had my scarf wrapped around my face at this point, looking like a Ninja). But the thing was it wasn't only me who could have been affected. Plenty of others were there too. The nurse who got me out of the waiting room said she thought it was wrong but she 'wasn't allowed to comment or do anything.'
Anyway, my eyes are going bad again. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. I mentioned it to my husband briefly, but I don't want to dwell on it with him because I can see it's tearing him apart. I just tell him I can live with it (not exactly a lot of choice there) and live with it I will.
The real fun and games though, began at the hospital pharmacy. My medication was changed, so I had to pick up a new, two week prescription. Simple, you might thing. No.
The thing is, that the medication I am on is hideously expensive. So although I was prescribed 112 tablets, they only come in boxes of 100. And they will not prescribe two boxes because that would be too much and too expensive. Nor can they split a box to give me the correct amount. So they sell me short but don't tell me. As it happens, I have some tablets I can use from my last GP prescription. But I can't stockpile these because:
(a) Once the GP knows I have had a hospital prescription, they will stop my tablets for as long as they think the hospital prescription will last (which means it will be short)
(b) once I don't pick up my tablets as usual from my local pharmacy they will stop ordering them. This means that the next time I go to pick up my prescription, they may be out of stock - and their suppliers will also be out of stock. Which means I can't have them.
And all the hospital pharmacy needed to do was split the bloody box!!!
I did ask them why they hadn't.... 'We aren't allowed to.'
So what I would really like to know is, where are these invisible NHS tyrants who force all and sundry to through common sense and joined up thinking out of the window?
Because I would very much like to get my hands on them.
Anyway, my eyes are going bad again. I feel like I've been punched in the stomach. I mentioned it to my husband briefly, but I don't want to dwell on it with him because I can see it's tearing him apart. I just tell him I can live with it (not exactly a lot of choice there) and live with it I will.
The real fun and games though, began at the hospital pharmacy. My medication was changed, so I had to pick up a new, two week prescription. Simple, you might thing. No.
The thing is, that the medication I am on is hideously expensive. So although I was prescribed 112 tablets, they only come in boxes of 100. And they will not prescribe two boxes because that would be too much and too expensive. Nor can they split a box to give me the correct amount. So they sell me short but don't tell me. As it happens, I have some tablets I can use from my last GP prescription. But I can't stockpile these because:
(a) Once the GP knows I have had a hospital prescription, they will stop my tablets for as long as they think the hospital prescription will last (which means it will be short)
(b) once I don't pick up my tablets as usual from my local pharmacy they will stop ordering them. This means that the next time I go to pick up my prescription, they may be out of stock - and their suppliers will also be out of stock. Which means I can't have them.
And all the hospital pharmacy needed to do was split the bloody box!!!
I did ask them why they hadn't.... 'We aren't allowed to.'
So what I would really like to know is, where are these invisible NHS tyrants who force all and sundry to through common sense and joined up thinking out of the window?
Because I would very much like to get my hands on them.
Sunday 27 February 2011
There is no alternative.... and the mysterious Plan B
When I was young, I can remember arguing with my father quite a lot. He wasn't normally a very patient man but when it came to talking about life he seemed to have endless patience during my teenage years. His questions were often simple, but the lessons they provided were profound and I shall always be grateful to him for that.
Story Number 1
So when I was complaining about something more than usual one day, he simply asked 'Why don't you change it then?'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
'Because I don't have any alternatives....'
Slowly, patiently, my father explained that there are always alternatives. I may not know what they are, I may not like them, some may not work (but some certainly will). 'There is always a different way of doing things, there is always a better way and it's your job to find out what that is.'
Story Number 2
Another day, I was complaining that my life lacked any direction. I didn't know what I wanted to be, I didn't know what I was capable of becoming (the jury's still out on that one by the way) and I lacked any sort of plan. The plan I had carefully nurtured through High School wasn't working out. And there was nothing I could do about it. Or so I thought.
'Go to Plan B,' said my father.
'I don't have a Plan B,' I wept.
'Ah. But you should always have a Plan B for times like this,' he explained.
'I didn't think I would need it,' I sobbed.
He smiled, shook his head. 'I know. But none of us knows what the future holds, you can't have just a single plan and stick to it. You must always have a couple of extras, just in case.'
My father knew what he was talking about here. Although he worked all his life, fate had thrown him a couple of horrible blows, and if anyone knew about alternatives, and Plans B through to Z it was him. So I listened. And it helped me to grow up.
Fast forward to the present day, where apparently well educated politicians have the gall to stand up and claim 'There are no alternatives' 'There is no Plan B' and I realise what a bunch of childish buffoons they are. Incapable of listening, they may have been expensively educated but have come out the other side knowing nothing of those they want to rule. They simply aren't interested. Ruling is an end in itself, they can't - won't - see beyond that. They certainly don't think that history has anything to teach them on the subject. But it does....
At the beginning of the twentieth century there was a powerful ruler of many people, called Nicholas. He ruled over millions whom he never understood. He thought he was invincible. He certainly never thought he needed alternatives or a Plan B.
And look what happened to him.
Story Number 1
So when I was complaining about something more than usual one day, he simply asked 'Why don't you change it then?'
'I can't.'
'Why not?'
'Because I don't have any alternatives....'
Slowly, patiently, my father explained that there are always alternatives. I may not know what they are, I may not like them, some may not work (but some certainly will). 'There is always a different way of doing things, there is always a better way and it's your job to find out what that is.'
Story Number 2
Another day, I was complaining that my life lacked any direction. I didn't know what I wanted to be, I didn't know what I was capable of becoming (the jury's still out on that one by the way) and I lacked any sort of plan. The plan I had carefully nurtured through High School wasn't working out. And there was nothing I could do about it. Or so I thought.
'Go to Plan B,' said my father.
'I don't have a Plan B,' I wept.
'Ah. But you should always have a Plan B for times like this,' he explained.
'I didn't think I would need it,' I sobbed.
He smiled, shook his head. 'I know. But none of us knows what the future holds, you can't have just a single plan and stick to it. You must always have a couple of extras, just in case.'
My father knew what he was talking about here. Although he worked all his life, fate had thrown him a couple of horrible blows, and if anyone knew about alternatives, and Plans B through to Z it was him. So I listened. And it helped me to grow up.
Fast forward to the present day, where apparently well educated politicians have the gall to stand up and claim 'There are no alternatives' 'There is no Plan B' and I realise what a bunch of childish buffoons they are. Incapable of listening, they may have been expensively educated but have come out the other side knowing nothing of those they want to rule. They simply aren't interested. Ruling is an end in itself, they can't - won't - see beyond that. They certainly don't think that history has anything to teach them on the subject. But it does....
At the beginning of the twentieth century there was a powerful ruler of many people, called Nicholas. He ruled over millions whom he never understood. He thought he was invincible. He certainly never thought he needed alternatives or a Plan B.
And look what happened to him.
Saturday 26 February 2011
Fighting back
The title sounds fierce - the reality is a little more pathetic. However, it's better than nothing. Years ago, when I was young, I would consider that 'fighting back' would at least require me to man the barricades or something. Nowadays fighting back means getting up, getting dressed and putting my bra on. I know which is more difficult for me.
And yet, in the midst of all of it, I force myself to look for the beauty in life. The sound of the birds. The sparkle of a raindrop on a dead plant on a windowsill. My husband telling me he still loves me after all these years. I was bright and lively when we met, full of strength. He used to tell me that I was the strong one of our partnership... but now I weep when I have to be helped to do simple things I once took for granted.
So today I am going to fight back. I am properly (if painfully) dressed. I have brushed my hair. I have put on some make up. I look considerably better than I feel.
And that's a start.
Now, lead me to the barricades!
And yet, in the midst of all of it, I force myself to look for the beauty in life. The sound of the birds. The sparkle of a raindrop on a dead plant on a windowsill. My husband telling me he still loves me after all these years. I was bright and lively when we met, full of strength. He used to tell me that I was the strong one of our partnership... but now I weep when I have to be helped to do simple things I once took for granted.
So today I am going to fight back. I am properly (if painfully) dressed. I have brushed my hair. I have put on some make up. I look considerably better than I feel.
And that's a start.
Now, lead me to the barricades!
Friday 25 February 2011
An update of sorts
I haven't blogged here in a while. Partly because so much else has been going on. Partly because I am feeling too rotten and just turning over in bed is all I can cope with. But my brain is still active, rest assured of that.
Anyway... to update on the shower. They win. I cannot keep it up any longer. At one point I thought I had won, only to encounter workmen who believed I had concrete floors upstairs (any fool can see they're made of wood) and that it would be okay to saw through a few joists. It won't . Trust me. I don't want to find one side of the house down in the garden.
But I did have a win of sorts, with the DWP. I finally won an appeal for DLA that has been rumbling on for YEARS. After several tribunals, I finally got what I wanted, which is great. I wish I could say that I've been celebrating, but I haven't. Because although I've 'won' in some respects, it isn't over....
Let me explain. Firstly, the DWP now appear to have lost the entire appeal. They have no record of my first claim, nor the appeals that followed,and they certainly have no record whatsoever of me winning anything. So actually getting some back-pay is a long way off.
Also, I now have to tackle HMRC to get my tax credits amended for the appropriate period. After all, if I was entitled to DLA for that period, I was also entitled to slightly higher tax credits. But no. The leviathon that is HMRC says it is only obliged to refund back to the start of the present financial year. And my claim - thanks to inept tribunals and the idiots at the DWP rumbled on for years in spite of all the evidence.
'Well,' I said, trying to sound reasonable, although in truth I was tearing my hair out, 'Surely there's something I can do? I must be able to appeal?'
'Oh yes,' they said, 'but.... you might have to attend a tribunal.'
I took a deep breath and counted to ten. 'Fine,' I said. 'I'm used to those. Put me down for a tribunal then.'
Anyway... to update on the shower. They win. I cannot keep it up any longer. At one point I thought I had won, only to encounter workmen who believed I had concrete floors upstairs (any fool can see they're made of wood) and that it would be okay to saw through a few joists. It won't . Trust me. I don't want to find one side of the house down in the garden.
But I did have a win of sorts, with the DWP. I finally won an appeal for DLA that has been rumbling on for YEARS. After several tribunals, I finally got what I wanted, which is great. I wish I could say that I've been celebrating, but I haven't. Because although I've 'won' in some respects, it isn't over....
Let me explain. Firstly, the DWP now appear to have lost the entire appeal. They have no record of my first claim, nor the appeals that followed,and they certainly have no record whatsoever of me winning anything. So actually getting some back-pay is a long way off.
Also, I now have to tackle HMRC to get my tax credits amended for the appropriate period. After all, if I was entitled to DLA for that period, I was also entitled to slightly higher tax credits. But no. The leviathon that is HMRC says it is only obliged to refund back to the start of the present financial year. And my claim - thanks to inept tribunals and the idiots at the DWP rumbled on for years in spite of all the evidence.
'Well,' I said, trying to sound reasonable, although in truth I was tearing my hair out, 'Surely there's something I can do? I must be able to appeal?'
'Oh yes,' they said, 'but.... you might have to attend a tribunal.'
I took a deep breath and counted to ten. 'Fine,' I said. 'I'm used to those. Put me down for a tribunal then.'
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