We sipped a litre of tango
Left buckets at the door
Minister Murphy was feeling kind of queasy
But the crowd yelled out for more
Their mood was getting darker
As the water didn’t spray
When we called out for another drink
The waiter he said nay
NIW CEO said there was perhaps a reason
And the quick thaw was plain to see
That he wandered through his playing cowards
But they would not let him flee
OFMDFM emerging
Who were reeling at his boast
And although our taps were open
They might have well been closed
And so it was that later
As NI Water told their tale
Their CEO was just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pail
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Tele-Phoney
I have been thinking about the impact of the mobile telephone on our lives. When they came out initially, they were beyond the pockets of most of us and only really the weapon of little choice of the very wealthy now they are jammed to the lug’ole or manipulated by the trigger thumbs of a person very close to you or indeed you.
I have decided for the sake of it to categorise the the diminishing grey cell phone junkies who populate every public place and are easily recognisable by their hen pecking the dust head movements as they glance down furtively to check text, text, check for missed calls or to just generally glance at the little screen to ensure that they haven’t missed that text or call by the signal strength dropping to one hazy notch. Ok phone tappers, this is your starter for six I am sure you can add some of your own to this wry look at the phone book :o)
1. The BLT (Belt loaded telephone) often accompanied by half mast trousers and brick-sized telephones wobbling on their hips like some out of shape Sheriff often accessorised by an equally bulky assemblage of keys on the other side. May be found wandering about DIY stores.
2. The DDT (Drug Dealing Twat) DDT is easily recognised by his plumage of white tracksuit and baseball cap shoved down so far on its head that it eyes are almost totally obscured. DDT will carry a minimum of 3 mobile phones one to receive calls, usually threats from his dealer, one to receive calls from his runners and one to ensure that his probation officer can reach him at all times to ensure he is staying out of trouble.
3.The NMB (New Model Barmy) NMB will only be seen with the latest model mobile and will flash it at all opportunities like car keys in a swingers party. NMB won’t bother using the phone much as his account has been frozen due to failure to pay its monthly contract NMB didn’t think about the cost of replacing its last model outside its existing contract.
4. The TP (Techno Prat) TP has no friends in it’s address book but gets off on demonstrating the key features of his telephone to it’s workmates or anyone else who will listen TP has fallen foul of the anti-stalking legislation and may relinquish his mobile telephone for the heady joys an ready boys resident in a HMP coin-operated facility in a town near you.
5. TT (The Twitcher) TT is noticable because it walks along carrying its mobile in the guise of a water diviner rocking it from side to side to ensure that all incoming messages know they are wanted and come in regularly. TT treats it’s moble like a clear blue pregnancy test and can predict each incoming text before it even misses a period (a message free period)
6. HW (Hoarse Whisperer) HW is evident by its overt covert usage of its mobile telephone to take calls incognoto HW tends to display its need for IPG (instant phone gratification) via frequent comfort breaks often attributed to bladder sensitivity
I have decided for the sake of it to categorise the the diminishing grey cell phone junkies who populate every public place and are easily recognisable by their hen pecking the dust head movements as they glance down furtively to check text, text, check for missed calls or to just generally glance at the little screen to ensure that they haven’t missed that text or call by the signal strength dropping to one hazy notch. Ok phone tappers, this is your starter for six I am sure you can add some of your own to this wry look at the phone book :o)
1. The BLT (Belt loaded telephone) often accompanied by half mast trousers and brick-sized telephones wobbling on their hips like some out of shape Sheriff often accessorised by an equally bulky assemblage of keys on the other side. May be found wandering about DIY stores.
2. The DDT (Drug Dealing Twat) DDT is easily recognised by his plumage of white tracksuit and baseball cap shoved down so far on its head that it eyes are almost totally obscured. DDT will carry a minimum of 3 mobile phones one to receive calls, usually threats from his dealer, one to receive calls from his runners and one to ensure that his probation officer can reach him at all times to ensure he is staying out of trouble.
3.The NMB (New Model Barmy) NMB will only be seen with the latest model mobile and will flash it at all opportunities like car keys in a swingers party. NMB won’t bother using the phone much as his account has been frozen due to failure to pay its monthly contract NMB didn’t think about the cost of replacing its last model outside its existing contract.
4. The TP (Techno Prat) TP has no friends in it’s address book but gets off on demonstrating the key features of his telephone to it’s workmates or anyone else who will listen TP has fallen foul of the anti-stalking legislation and may relinquish his mobile telephone for the heady joys an ready boys resident in a HMP coin-operated facility in a town near you.
5. TT (The Twitcher) TT is noticable because it walks along carrying its mobile in the guise of a water diviner rocking it from side to side to ensure that all incoming messages know they are wanted and come in regularly. TT treats it’s moble like a clear blue pregnancy test and can predict each incoming text before it even misses a period (a message free period)
6. HW (Hoarse Whisperer) HW is evident by its overt covert usage of its mobile telephone to take calls incognoto HW tends to display its need for IPG (instant phone gratification) via frequent comfort breaks often attributed to bladder sensitivity
Monday, 13 September 2010
Think before you hit "send"
This may be of some use.
This may be of some use
Communicating by email has wonderful advantages not least it is almost immediate, can be sent as both an internal document to colleagues and can be sent to a distribution list across the world at the push of a button.
Sending an email is easy - perhaps too easy; do we put enough thought into how we communicate and the implications of what we say in an email which perhaps we would not say in a formal letter?
Do we also commit to email knee jerk reactions and a tone that we later regret? Do we remember that what we say to one person in an email can be forwarded to 10/100/1000 others?
Many of our organisations will have email protocols but it is really easy to get lazy and the boundaries can get blurred.
There are some simple things we can do to prevent awkward situations or worse.
All work related communications require a degree of formality. It doesn't have to be as formal as Dear John
We can use Hello Jane followed by the message and finish with kind regards or regards. It is helpful to ensure that we have a signature with our contact details
For very formal communications it is always better to use a formal letter template as an attachment and with your electronic signature and the statement 'Sent Electronically' if you are following up with a hard copy by post say this.
For sensitive/confidential documents do not use the auto fill i.e. from a list that pops up as it is really easy to get the wrong person - better to use your address book function or type the receipent's address in manually than sending something that may be comercially or personally sensitive to the wrong person. Also remember when using distribution lists that these are group lists and do not singe out a person for your attention by telling everyone...
If you are responding or reacting to an issue/incident that you are concerned/annoyed about it is better to type up what you want to send in a word document, save it, take a break or do something else and then read it again - is the tone right or too strong/too emotional/too angry? once you hit the send button it is too late to retreive what in hindsight you would not have sent.
It is also important to archive emails that you may need later - for example an instruction you have given or a comment on a particular project. Your organisation may for example delete emails on your system after a certain length of time - if it's important then you need to look at how best to archive it. Emails might come back to haunt you but they can also provide proof of an action, you took, an instruction you gave etc.
This may be of some use
Communicating by email has wonderful advantages not least it is almost immediate, can be sent as both an internal document to colleagues and can be sent to a distribution list across the world at the push of a button.
Sending an email is easy - perhaps too easy; do we put enough thought into how we communicate and the implications of what we say in an email which perhaps we would not say in a formal letter?
Do we also commit to email knee jerk reactions and a tone that we later regret? Do we remember that what we say to one person in an email can be forwarded to 10/100/1000 others?
Many of our organisations will have email protocols but it is really easy to get lazy and the boundaries can get blurred.
There are some simple things we can do to prevent awkward situations or worse.
All work related communications require a degree of formality. It doesn't have to be as formal as Dear John
We can use Hello Jane followed by the message and finish with kind regards or regards. It is helpful to ensure that we have a signature with our contact details
For very formal communications it is always better to use a formal letter template as an attachment and with your electronic signature and the statement 'Sent Electronically' if you are following up with a hard copy by post say this.
For sensitive/confidential documents do not use the auto fill i.e. from a list that pops up as it is really easy to get the wrong person - better to use your address book function or type the receipent's address in manually than sending something that may be comercially or personally sensitive to the wrong person. Also remember when using distribution lists that these are group lists and do not singe out a person for your attention by telling everyone...
If you are responding or reacting to an issue/incident that you are concerned/annoyed about it is better to type up what you want to send in a word document, save it, take a break or do something else and then read it again - is the tone right or too strong/too emotional/too angry? once you hit the send button it is too late to retreive what in hindsight you would not have sent.
It is also important to archive emails that you may need later - for example an instruction you have given or a comment on a particular project. Your organisation may for example delete emails on your system after a certain length of time - if it's important then you need to look at how best to archive it. Emails might come back to haunt you but they can also provide proof of an action, you took, an instruction you gave etc.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Heartbeat Hotel
My colleague and I were in Liverpool for an interim meeting with some of our European partners prior to the meeting at the end of this month that we have with the full group in Copenhagen.
I haven't spent time in Liverpool for quite a few years and the changes for the better are evident by the improvements to the city centre and the general vibrancy of the place. We arrived around 5pm after the short 35 minute flight from Belfast and had a lovely dinner in Bella Italia before wandering around the city centre priort to hitting the hay.
Friday was busy we had a very productive co-ordinators meeting in Toxteth Town Hall which is now a multi purpose building in community ownership. Many people will remember the Toxteth riots which happened in 1981 as a result of the tension between the police and the local community - the police had then a propensity for stopping and searching young black men and one such stopping and searching and brutality towards one young man ignited a spark... To be honest coming from where I come from riots were and are the norm and with two young children and a baby on the way I didn't take much notice at the time.
When we were going through Liverpool's China Town to the Town Hall our colleagues Joshua and Margaret described in detail how this deprived area had worked to restore community cohesion and pride. The refurbishment of the Town Hall had been primarly the work of one woman who had been long term unemployed and dependent on welfare benefits for many years - she had suddenly thought that something needed to happen and through her efforts it was now a vibrant community hub.
Dinner was in Bistro Jacques, veggie friendly and not breaking the bank. We had good fun and it was so nice to see the humour travelling across 7 nationalities and goodness knows how many cultures. Some of our colleagues headed for the delights of Matthews Street and the pubs and music venues, and the remainder headed back to the hotel - The Holiday Inn right opposite Lime Street Rail Station. The hotel looked a bit dreary on the outside but inside it was lovely and the staff were efficient, helpful and friendly. We had a night cap in the almost empty hotel bar and a bit of additional chat and banter before heading to bed.
I found it hard to get off to sleep and watched the news about the earthquake in New Zealand before finally settling around 2.30am - there was a bit of revelry passing my room but nothing more than people enjoying themselves on the way to bed after a good night out.
I was wakened at 4.57am (I looked at the LCD on the TV) "Hello this is Michael from Reception, sorry to disturb you... we have had reports of an accident outside your room... could you please check..."
"Michael" had a Northern Irish accent... was polite and professional and me in my state of half asleepedness didn't register the very oddness of the hotel ringing a guest about something like an accident report. I got up went to the door and opened it slightly - there was nothing on the landing and I closed the door ... when it hit me in the guts just what I had done.
I went back to the phone and said, "I have looked out there is nothing there" "Michael then said, you sound very shaken, are you on your own, would you like someone to come and talk to you?" By this stage the penny was starting to drop with me and I realised the danger I had put myself in. I said, "yes well I am at bit alarmed at being wakened at 5am by the telephone" "Michael" then said "what is your room number?" that nailed it for me... my reply was "You should know my room number " he said "512" to which I said, "No" and the line went dead. I was in 518 3 rooms out. The enormity of what could have happened to me hit.
I phoned reception and of course there was no "Michael" and I reported what had occurred and was reassured that security would patrol the floors etc. I didn't sleep and felt sick with anxiety.
I phoned SO at 8am and explained what had happened and he told me to go down to reception ask for the duty manager and to register a formal complaint and to ask for the police to be informed. He also told me to ask the hotel to get their telephone logs and to identify which rooms had made calls in that time zone... a big hotel group billing every second should be able to mine their data logs. I did this and the duty manager was very helpful and apppropriately concerned. They will get back to me tomorrow.
I am so sick to my stomach and reckon I had a lucky escape as undoubetedly "Michael" may have had another "Michael" with him. I can't help wondering if there was robbery, assault, sexual assault or all 3 on the cards - I doubt he wanted to discuss the weather. I am also thinking if there have been other women not so lucky in other hotels in other cities when called by "Michael from reception"
I am nobody's fool, I like to think I understand personal safety and risk, I only had a glass of wine all evening and I keep on asking myself WTF I got sucked in by such a confidence trick?
Was it my awoken with a start state in unfamiliar surroundings?
Was it my lulled into a comfort zone by his Northern Irish accent?
Was it my natural desire to help on being told report of an accident?
Or a combination of all three. I thank my stars that I caught on at the second stage and didn't give my room number out - thinking back he didn't use my Name Mrs Russam...
It transpired that other rooms had received calls which should have made me feel better that his/their approach was random but somehow it didn't. Also, the chain on the door didn't work though I doubt I would have used it.
The hotel have stated that all calls between rooms after midnight will now go through reception so hopefully no poor sod will have to face what I did.
I have always encouraged my colleagues to follow the guidelines set by the Suzie Lamplaugh trust and to consider their personal safety when working alone or with new clients even down to room layout and report whereabouts and never visiting a client at home etc - we even have personal alarms. I shall be taking mine next time I travel.
Friends and colleagues this is a stark reminder that our personal safety can be compromised at any time even if we think we are cool about not taking risks. Tell your friends and colleagues or families who may be travelling about my experience and not to get complacent about things - people that want to rob us or hurt us never are.
I haven't spent time in Liverpool for quite a few years and the changes for the better are evident by the improvements to the city centre and the general vibrancy of the place. We arrived around 5pm after the short 35 minute flight from Belfast and had a lovely dinner in Bella Italia before wandering around the city centre priort to hitting the hay.
Friday was busy we had a very productive co-ordinators meeting in Toxteth Town Hall which is now a multi purpose building in community ownership. Many people will remember the Toxteth riots which happened in 1981 as a result of the tension between the police and the local community - the police had then a propensity for stopping and searching young black men and one such stopping and searching and brutality towards one young man ignited a spark... To be honest coming from where I come from riots were and are the norm and with two young children and a baby on the way I didn't take much notice at the time.
When we were going through Liverpool's China Town to the Town Hall our colleagues Joshua and Margaret described in detail how this deprived area had worked to restore community cohesion and pride. The refurbishment of the Town Hall had been primarly the work of one woman who had been long term unemployed and dependent on welfare benefits for many years - she had suddenly thought that something needed to happen and through her efforts it was now a vibrant community hub.
Dinner was in Bistro Jacques, veggie friendly and not breaking the bank. We had good fun and it was so nice to see the humour travelling across 7 nationalities and goodness knows how many cultures. Some of our colleagues headed for the delights of Matthews Street and the pubs and music venues, and the remainder headed back to the hotel - The Holiday Inn right opposite Lime Street Rail Station. The hotel looked a bit dreary on the outside but inside it was lovely and the staff were efficient, helpful and friendly. We had a night cap in the almost empty hotel bar and a bit of additional chat and banter before heading to bed.
I found it hard to get off to sleep and watched the news about the earthquake in New Zealand before finally settling around 2.30am - there was a bit of revelry passing my room but nothing more than people enjoying themselves on the way to bed after a good night out.
I was wakened at 4.57am (I looked at the LCD on the TV) "Hello this is Michael from Reception, sorry to disturb you... we have had reports of an accident outside your room... could you please check..."
"Michael" had a Northern Irish accent... was polite and professional and me in my state of half asleepedness didn't register the very oddness of the hotel ringing a guest about something like an accident report. I got up went to the door and opened it slightly - there was nothing on the landing and I closed the door ... when it hit me in the guts just what I had done.
I went back to the phone and said, "I have looked out there is nothing there" "Michael then said, you sound very shaken, are you on your own, would you like someone to come and talk to you?" By this stage the penny was starting to drop with me and I realised the danger I had put myself in. I said, "yes well I am at bit alarmed at being wakened at 5am by the telephone" "Michael" then said "what is your room number?" that nailed it for me... my reply was "You should know my room number " he said "512" to which I said, "No" and the line went dead. I was in 518 3 rooms out. The enormity of what could have happened to me hit.
I phoned reception and of course there was no "Michael" and I reported what had occurred and was reassured that security would patrol the floors etc. I didn't sleep and felt sick with anxiety.
I phoned SO at 8am and explained what had happened and he told me to go down to reception ask for the duty manager and to register a formal complaint and to ask for the police to be informed. He also told me to ask the hotel to get their telephone logs and to identify which rooms had made calls in that time zone... a big hotel group billing every second should be able to mine their data logs. I did this and the duty manager was very helpful and apppropriately concerned. They will get back to me tomorrow.
I am so sick to my stomach and reckon I had a lucky escape as undoubetedly "Michael" may have had another "Michael" with him. I can't help wondering if there was robbery, assault, sexual assault or all 3 on the cards - I doubt he wanted to discuss the weather. I am also thinking if there have been other women not so lucky in other hotels in other cities when called by "Michael from reception"
I am nobody's fool, I like to think I understand personal safety and risk, I only had a glass of wine all evening and I keep on asking myself WTF I got sucked in by such a confidence trick?
Was it my awoken with a start state in unfamiliar surroundings?
Was it my lulled into a comfort zone by his Northern Irish accent?
Was it my natural desire to help on being told report of an accident?
Or a combination of all three. I thank my stars that I caught on at the second stage and didn't give my room number out - thinking back he didn't use my Name Mrs Russam...
It transpired that other rooms had received calls which should have made me feel better that his/their approach was random but somehow it didn't. Also, the chain on the door didn't work though I doubt I would have used it.
The hotel have stated that all calls between rooms after midnight will now go through reception so hopefully no poor sod will have to face what I did.
I have always encouraged my colleagues to follow the guidelines set by the Suzie Lamplaugh trust and to consider their personal safety when working alone or with new clients even down to room layout and report whereabouts and never visiting a client at home etc - we even have personal alarms. I shall be taking mine next time I travel.
Friends and colleagues this is a stark reminder that our personal safety can be compromised at any time even if we think we are cool about not taking risks. Tell your friends and colleagues or families who may be travelling about my experience and not to get complacent about things - people that want to rob us or hurt us never are.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
The Blair Bitch Project
The Blair Bitch Project
The Dark Lord got his book out first
The third man won the ego and spoon race
And left TB and GB fit to burst
And thinking about how to save face
Now we have Blair’s literary proffering
All glory and no guts Prime Minister
All proceeds to British Legion as part of the offering
Surely that decision wasn’t sinister
A clever move to reduce the flak
And avoid a graceless fall
On his decision to send British troops to Iraq
Without the proper kit and caboodle
Armed for peace unready for war
Until he gave himself the sack
For ever labelled George Bush’s poodle
He may well stand by his decision
As about saving the Iraqi people from tyranny
But will forever be a source of derision
And we can’t just miss the bloody irony
That Iraqi people have suffered more
By George and Tony bringing their peace revolution
Replacing what had gone before
The brutal reality is there was solution
And what of our own wee dirty war
Collusion, illusion and Mr Elastic
Cosying up to Gerry and Marty
Stretching the truth beyond the fantastic
Bringing Big Ian and Peter
Along to the party
Encouraging the wording
A real Mr Fixer
Wine Whiskey and Beer
For our own prods and mixer
We have nothing more to fear
For it can’t get any worse
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission
Signing on the dotted line at St Andy’s
Was his true mission
Wonder if his spookery book
Will sell more than his old fiend Mandy’s
Or perhaps just a ploy to make Gordon frown
I must sell more books than sociophobe Brown
The Dark Lord got his book out first
The third man won the ego and spoon race
And left TB and GB fit to burst
And thinking about how to save face
Now we have Blair’s literary proffering
All glory and no guts Prime Minister
All proceeds to British Legion as part of the offering
Surely that decision wasn’t sinister
A clever move to reduce the flak
And avoid a graceless fall
On his decision to send British troops to Iraq
Without the proper kit and caboodle
Armed for peace unready for war
Until he gave himself the sack
For ever labelled George Bush’s poodle
He may well stand by his decision
As about saving the Iraqi people from tyranny
But will forever be a source of derision
And we can’t just miss the bloody irony
That Iraqi people have suffered more
By George and Tony bringing their peace revolution
Replacing what had gone before
The brutal reality is there was solution
And what of our own wee dirty war
Collusion, illusion and Mr Elastic
Cosying up to Gerry and Marty
Stretching the truth beyond the fantastic
Bringing Big Ian and Peter
Along to the party
Encouraging the wording
A real Mr Fixer
Wine Whiskey and Beer
For our own prods and mixer
We have nothing more to fear
For it can’t get any worse
Better to ask for forgiveness than permission
Signing on the dotted line at St Andy’s
Was his true mission
Wonder if his spookery book
Will sell more than his old fiend Mandy’s
Or perhaps just a ploy to make Gordon frown
I must sell more books than sociophobe Brown
Air on a shoestring
Aren’t we all just a smidgeon weary
With the antics of one Mr Michael O’Leary
Perhaps we should stand in awe of his business savvy
In charging Ryan Air passengers to use his lavvy
Then his tease about airline passengers standing
Plenty of publicity for that bumpy landing
The CAA would have something to say
About passengers standing all the way
And what of those of us who carry extra weight
He wants to charge us extra money
Such blatant discrimination just isn’t funny
Why doesn’t he just send us freight?
Or Change his name to Rhino Air
We charge fatties more and we don’t care
As for the passengers stranded by the ash cloud
Done his cut throat reputation more than proud
Now he is pulling out of George Best Belfast City
And while the jobs that may go is a real pity
Will we really miss his no frills flights
As we watch his last plane in the runway lights
Many of us would pay a little more without a care
It's so long farewell to Ryan Air
Here comes Flybe for your market share
With the antics of one Mr Michael O’Leary
Perhaps we should stand in awe of his business savvy
In charging Ryan Air passengers to use his lavvy
Then his tease about airline passengers standing
Plenty of publicity for that bumpy landing
The CAA would have something to say
About passengers standing all the way
And what of those of us who carry extra weight
He wants to charge us extra money
Such blatant discrimination just isn’t funny
Why doesn’t he just send us freight?
Or Change his name to Rhino Air
We charge fatties more and we don’t care
As for the passengers stranded by the ash cloud
Done his cut throat reputation more than proud
Now he is pulling out of George Best Belfast City
And while the jobs that may go is a real pity
Will we really miss his no frills flights
As we watch his last plane in the runway lights
Many of us would pay a little more without a care
It's so long farewell to Ryan Air
Here comes Flybe for your market share
Friday, 20 August 2010
Waterloo Subset
Waterloo Subset
Oh dear water can the matter be
Standards in public life
Have gone down the lavatory
What will become of the permanent secretary
Nobody knows who he’ll turn to
Bet any money he regrets ghost writing
And wish he had said pass
When asked to author Peter’s Gas
Shall he plead perhaps that he was insane
Affected by water on the brain
Let’s pay a consultant £1200 a day
And have him dictate what they have to say
To determine his fate
No that would just grate
All gas and gaiters
Have had their day
If the great and the grand
Fail to understand
That Governance also applies to them
No lip civil service and emails so sinister
And what shall become of the government minister
He focused on the procurement faults
Sending the non-execs to the vaults
Sealing their sorry fate and apportioning blame
Based on information which now seems so lame
Allowing himself to get involved in perfidy
Albeit perhaps a tad unwittingly
Perhaps he will stay on in liquidity
And blame someone else for his own stupidity
Put it all down to a minor judgement lapse
Will the last one to leave
Please turn off the taps
Oh dear water can the matter be
Standards in public life
Have gone down the lavatory
What will become of the permanent secretary
Nobody knows who he’ll turn to
Bet any money he regrets ghost writing
And wish he had said pass
When asked to author Peter’s Gas
Shall he plead perhaps that he was insane
Affected by water on the brain
Let’s pay a consultant £1200 a day
And have him dictate what they have to say
To determine his fate
No that would just grate
All gas and gaiters
Have had their day
If the great and the grand
Fail to understand
That Governance also applies to them
No lip civil service and emails so sinister
And what shall become of the government minister
He focused on the procurement faults
Sending the non-execs to the vaults
Sealing their sorry fate and apportioning blame
Based on information which now seems so lame
Allowing himself to get involved in perfidy
Albeit perhaps a tad unwittingly
Perhaps he will stay on in liquidity
And blame someone else for his own stupidity
Put it all down to a minor judgement lapse
Will the last one to leave
Please turn off the taps
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Rolling egos up hill
Now I don’t mean to be critical
But on considering all things political
Do the folks on the hill
Fit the bill
When it comes to matters of the welfare state
Can they work together to determine our fate
Instead of trading tired old blows
As our economy stalls and recovery slows
Or notwithstanding religion do they have a confession
That they haven’t an answer to the current recession
And it’s better to focus on maintaining division
Than leave themselves open to our derision
Playing the old card be it orange or green
Or in the case of some the bit in between
Some tugging the forelock to boy David and young Nick
With the emphasis on punishing the undeserving sick
To replenish the coffers of the priggy banks
Can’t we just tell them thanks but no thanks
We won’t get involved with political smuggling
Or allow the vulnerable to continue struggling
Moved from sickness to rude health
In an action of national stealth
Standing in lines with the other new aimless
Those chopped public servants who of course are the blameless
There aren’t enough box clerks left to deal with the queues
But what does it matter they have nothing to lose
No money for the jobless, the unwilling, the lazy
Lump them altogether in the silo marked crazy
What do we care in the house on the hill
We have more to entertain us than serving the ill
Reducing their benefit to poverty amounts
Won’t really matter until every vote counts
Then they will shout from the hustings all they can muster
About special cases, deprivation and that kind of bluster
Maintaining a balance of prods and micks
Is what gives our folks on the hill their kicks
Let’s challenge them now before the election
To sort it out without deflection
Make our pound in their pocket do the talking
Or down the hill they’ll be walking
If on welfare reform they roar like a mouse
Then send them all to their own poor house
But on considering all things political
Do the folks on the hill
Fit the bill
When it comes to matters of the welfare state
Can they work together to determine our fate
Instead of trading tired old blows
As our economy stalls and recovery slows
Or notwithstanding religion do they have a confession
That they haven’t an answer to the current recession
And it’s better to focus on maintaining division
Than leave themselves open to our derision
Playing the old card be it orange or green
Or in the case of some the bit in between
Some tugging the forelock to boy David and young Nick
With the emphasis on punishing the undeserving sick
To replenish the coffers of the priggy banks
Can’t we just tell them thanks but no thanks
We won’t get involved with political smuggling
Or allow the vulnerable to continue struggling
Moved from sickness to rude health
In an action of national stealth
Standing in lines with the other new aimless
Those chopped public servants who of course are the blameless
There aren’t enough box clerks left to deal with the queues
But what does it matter they have nothing to lose
No money for the jobless, the unwilling, the lazy
Lump them altogether in the silo marked crazy
What do we care in the house on the hill
We have more to entertain us than serving the ill
Reducing their benefit to poverty amounts
Won’t really matter until every vote counts
Then they will shout from the hustings all they can muster
About special cases, deprivation and that kind of bluster
Maintaining a balance of prods and micks
Is what gives our folks on the hill their kicks
Let’s challenge them now before the election
To sort it out without deflection
Make our pound in their pocket do the talking
Or down the hill they’ll be walking
If on welfare reform they roar like a mouse
Then send them all to their own poor house
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Clam Bake
I was in the hairdresser's on Saturdaymorning getting my roots to resemble the natural colour of the rest of my hair (why is it that a "natural look" costs so much and only lasts about 4 weeks or combed the right way 5) There was a lady there who was obviously quite confused, she had left her house with only her purse, leaving her house keys and handbag at home on the kitchen table. The hairdresser was great with her and soon worked out how to sort out getting her home and leaving her with her dignity. I thought I recognised the lady's face and I did recognise the look in her eyes which is a feature of people dealing with the early stages of Dementia.
Her daughter arrived to collect her in a flurry of the salmon pink raincoat that is the uniform of those who embrace middle age with gusto. I didn't for a minute recognise her but then I did, she was the girl at school who had it all; well I least I thought she had it all. She was very, very pretty and with long blonde hair and the whitest of white ankle socks; I wondered if she had a brand new pair for every day, nobody could get their socks that white, they positively glowed as did she. She had it all in my book, slim, long blonde hair, peaches and cream skin and clever to boot. She also had the best looking boy in the school who I lusted after from a distance - they were an item from they were 14 and were still an item 36 years later.
She was like Sandy out of Grease before John revolting gave her a crash course in rocker chick couture and she was still like Sandy out of Grease except that Sandy's blonde flip was now a sensible silver bob and her drindl was replaced by a navy pleated skirt just hovering above the knee with "candle glow" tights and navy court shoes. In truth, her poor old mum, albeit a bit doo lally, was more fashionably dressed in a nice linen skirt and matching blouse. Ok, I currently resembled a crack house christmas tree and was only a year or so younger, there was a lot more separating us, she seemed to have added the trappings of 20 or so years before she had lived the 20 odd years. I don't try to dress like a 20 something but I don't feel the need to join the the blessed legion of polyester just yet. My hair is best described as the explosion in the mattress factory look - my colleagues get jumpy if I wear it flat - according to my managers they think the flat hair means I am going to deliver bad news.
Seems the girl who had it all is now the silver, sensible-shod primary carer for the mother who managed to get her ankle socks to glow and the fat kid with the lank hair, spots and national health glasses who was lucky to have a pair of socks at all, hasn't sucumbed to the salmon pink raincoat, and while she doesn't forget her roots, she does ensure that they remain true to her ends.
Her daughter arrived to collect her in a flurry of the salmon pink raincoat that is the uniform of those who embrace middle age with gusto. I didn't for a minute recognise her but then I did, she was the girl at school who had it all; well I least I thought she had it all. She was very, very pretty and with long blonde hair and the whitest of white ankle socks; I wondered if she had a brand new pair for every day, nobody could get their socks that white, they positively glowed as did she. She had it all in my book, slim, long blonde hair, peaches and cream skin and clever to boot. She also had the best looking boy in the school who I lusted after from a distance - they were an item from they were 14 and were still an item 36 years later.
She was like Sandy out of Grease before John revolting gave her a crash course in rocker chick couture and she was still like Sandy out of Grease except that Sandy's blonde flip was now a sensible silver bob and her drindl was replaced by a navy pleated skirt just hovering above the knee with "candle glow" tights and navy court shoes. In truth, her poor old mum, albeit a bit doo lally, was more fashionably dressed in a nice linen skirt and matching blouse. Ok, I currently resembled a crack house christmas tree and was only a year or so younger, there was a lot more separating us, she seemed to have added the trappings of 20 or so years before she had lived the 20 odd years. I don't try to dress like a 20 something but I don't feel the need to join the the blessed legion of polyester just yet. My hair is best described as the explosion in the mattress factory look - my colleagues get jumpy if I wear it flat - according to my managers they think the flat hair means I am going to deliver bad news.
Seems the girl who had it all is now the silver, sensible-shod primary carer for the mother who managed to get her ankle socks to glow and the fat kid with the lank hair, spots and national health glasses who was lucky to have a pair of socks at all, hasn't sucumbed to the salmon pink raincoat, and while she doesn't forget her roots, she does ensure that they remain true to her ends.
Fangs for the Memories
Today I want to talk about phobias, not generally but mine. I am conscious of the fact that bloggus interruptus may occur as my phobia, well one of them may prevent me from going on with this - as in I may have to distract myself by whatever means I can which may include leaving the house.
I will start with the minor irritations as opposed to the big kahuna - these I can deal with without coming out in a cold sweat or feeling that sensation of cotton wool in my chest.
Anyway, cigarette ends is one - I am not on any anti puffers podium nor do I mind people smoking its the end product I can't stand. I am unable to lift fag ends without wearing rubber gloves or wrapping news paper round my hands. Its the smell that gets me and makes me chunder. I think it may be something to do with my parental unit being from the war generation where non-filter fags were partially smoked extinguished and then re-lit later I never liked that smell.
Moving swiftly on, I am not struck on winged instruments, that is birds. I don't mind them wandering around as long as they don't flap and wander around me that is. Last time I went to the local park it was bucketing with rain and the swans and geese and ducks were hungry and I had brought a couple of loaves of bread and was standing chucking big bits into the water when they got me in a pincer movement, I was circled by a pulsating pavlova of white wings and shrill squawking as they competed with each other for my bags of bread. Well, I ran screaming back to the safety of my car with every man, woman, child and their dogs laughing at the sight of this crazed banshee creature sliding over the swan shit in the pouring rain.
Of course, I have been building up to the main event the jaws of my dilemma the molars of my mortification, and the root cause of my problem - FALSE TEETH there I said it. I am now focusing very intently on what I am typing as opposed to the mental images that are skipping across my conscious like little dental plates of tiller girls doing a steradent frothed can-can in my mind.
As a child I didn't like it when my elderly great aunt, she of the white hair, white powdery complexion topped off with blood red lips that made her look like a ghostly geisha, used to think it was funny to let her top set slip down and act out the giant from Jack and the beanstalk...fee..fi..fo..fum..
It got worse over the years and actually made me switch careers in my early days from nursing to social work nursing = potential to have to deal with false teeth, removing them, washing them and refitting them like a bloody bricklayer shuggling them to get them to fit in the gummy cavity wall lining.
I can't even watch The Simpsons when Granpa's falsers are on the move like into Santa's Little Helper's mouth I have to turn away. And if there is a You've Been Framed type programme on the giggle box I keep a cushion handy to cover my face.
I am not dental phobic and have no problem going to the dentist and injections, drills and pain don't bother me but they know to move all sightings of plates and bridges out of my line of sight.
Its not really even the teeth bit that gets me, its the pinky, shiny, plastic pretend gums, attached to them like a set of mouth based maracas with a smattering of chattering.
This is not meant to offend people who have dentures, despite me making light of it, its as real to me as say a fear of spiders is to another person.
Now off for some retail therapy.
I will start with the minor irritations as opposed to the big kahuna - these I can deal with without coming out in a cold sweat or feeling that sensation of cotton wool in my chest.
Anyway, cigarette ends is one - I am not on any anti puffers podium nor do I mind people smoking its the end product I can't stand. I am unable to lift fag ends without wearing rubber gloves or wrapping news paper round my hands. Its the smell that gets me and makes me chunder. I think it may be something to do with my parental unit being from the war generation where non-filter fags were partially smoked extinguished and then re-lit later I never liked that smell.
Moving swiftly on, I am not struck on winged instruments, that is birds. I don't mind them wandering around as long as they don't flap and wander around me that is. Last time I went to the local park it was bucketing with rain and the swans and geese and ducks were hungry and I had brought a couple of loaves of bread and was standing chucking big bits into the water when they got me in a pincer movement, I was circled by a pulsating pavlova of white wings and shrill squawking as they competed with each other for my bags of bread. Well, I ran screaming back to the safety of my car with every man, woman, child and their dogs laughing at the sight of this crazed banshee creature sliding over the swan shit in the pouring rain.
Of course, I have been building up to the main event the jaws of my dilemma the molars of my mortification, and the root cause of my problem - FALSE TEETH there I said it. I am now focusing very intently on what I am typing as opposed to the mental images that are skipping across my conscious like little dental plates of tiller girls doing a steradent frothed can-can in my mind.
As a child I didn't like it when my elderly great aunt, she of the white hair, white powdery complexion topped off with blood red lips that made her look like a ghostly geisha, used to think it was funny to let her top set slip down and act out the giant from Jack and the beanstalk...fee..fi..fo..fum..
It got worse over the years and actually made me switch careers in my early days from nursing to social work nursing = potential to have to deal with false teeth, removing them, washing them and refitting them like a bloody bricklayer shuggling them to get them to fit in the gummy cavity wall lining.
I can't even watch The Simpsons when Granpa's falsers are on the move like into Santa's Little Helper's mouth I have to turn away. And if there is a You've Been Framed type programme on the giggle box I keep a cushion handy to cover my face.
I am not dental phobic and have no problem going to the dentist and injections, drills and pain don't bother me but they know to move all sightings of plates and bridges out of my line of sight.
Its not really even the teeth bit that gets me, its the pinky, shiny, plastic pretend gums, attached to them like a set of mouth based maracas with a smattering of chattering.
This is not meant to offend people who have dentures, despite me making light of it, its as real to me as say a fear of spiders is to another person.
Now off for some retail therapy.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Nostrildamus
Snoring - we all do it and it doesn't bother us because if we are snoring, we tend to be asleep at the time.
I have, of course, been known to wake myself up with the volume and ferocity of a rogue snore, the noise and the impact on the nasal passages serving to make one's cheeks wobble with the force resembling the thrust of a drag racer. Those isolated incidents aside, I have generally been on the receiving end of the snoring of others. Last night, I was in the snore zone, that is on the down wind of the sinus-charged, lip quivering, blunderbuss that is SO's nose in full on snore.
Ok, he has the propensity to offer a few mellow drones from his not unimpressive durante, especially if he and Stella (Artois) have got cosy of an evening in front of the giggle-box, but on such occasions a swift shove to the rib-cage and a request (ahem) to lie on his side as opposed to his normal flat on his back sleeping position, generally has the desired effect. Depending on just how asleep he is and of course, just how awake I am, it may take one or two additional suggestions from me before his snore trap-door shuts and normal slumber resumes.
Last night I was introduced to the full range of his snoring repetoire a veritable banquet of bellows, a smorgasbord of sound and a gazpacho of gurgles - all at soundbarrier breaking decibels. All my poking, prodding and pleading fell on deaf ears, which is understandble given the noise coming from his snout it was unlikely he could hear himself let alone my pleas for snore ease.
I even tried a spot of cognitive behavioural therapy - pavlov's bog - "darling you need to go to the bathroom don't you, why don't you go now before "we" settle back to sleep" (coupled with a gentle pressure to the P-Zone) all to no avail, he slept and I nearly wept.
I couldn't understand why my usual tactics to deal with his before dawn chorus hadn't worked. It was only when his call of the wild was interspersed with coughs and sneezes did I realise that his snoreplay was foreplay to the main event - a horrible head cold and sinusitus. But that was after he decided to sleep on the settee which in my carnaptious lack of sleep mood was sofa so good.
Hopefully, the decongestants and vapour rubs will help to calm his nasal noise and throaty throttle. But if we have a repeat performance tonight, my tolerance levels will have improved as his night music now includes a sick-note. zzzzzzz......zzzzz
I have, of course, been known to wake myself up with the volume and ferocity of a rogue snore, the noise and the impact on the nasal passages serving to make one's cheeks wobble with the force resembling the thrust of a drag racer. Those isolated incidents aside, I have generally been on the receiving end of the snoring of others. Last night, I was in the snore zone, that is on the down wind of the sinus-charged, lip quivering, blunderbuss that is SO's nose in full on snore.
Ok, he has the propensity to offer a few mellow drones from his not unimpressive durante, especially if he and Stella (Artois) have got cosy of an evening in front of the giggle-box, but on such occasions a swift shove to the rib-cage and a request (ahem) to lie on his side as opposed to his normal flat on his back sleeping position, generally has the desired effect. Depending on just how asleep he is and of course, just how awake I am, it may take one or two additional suggestions from me before his snore trap-door shuts and normal slumber resumes.
Last night I was introduced to the full range of his snoring repetoire a veritable banquet of bellows, a smorgasbord of sound and a gazpacho of gurgles - all at soundbarrier breaking decibels. All my poking, prodding and pleading fell on deaf ears, which is understandble given the noise coming from his snout it was unlikely he could hear himself let alone my pleas for snore ease.
I even tried a spot of cognitive behavioural therapy - pavlov's bog - "darling you need to go to the bathroom don't you, why don't you go now before "we" settle back to sleep" (coupled with a gentle pressure to the P-Zone) all to no avail, he slept and I nearly wept.
I couldn't understand why my usual tactics to deal with his before dawn chorus hadn't worked. It was only when his call of the wild was interspersed with coughs and sneezes did I realise that his snoreplay was foreplay to the main event - a horrible head cold and sinusitus. But that was after he decided to sleep on the settee which in my carnaptious lack of sleep mood was sofa so good.
Hopefully, the decongestants and vapour rubs will help to calm his nasal noise and throaty throttle. But if we have a repeat performance tonight, my tolerance levels will have improved as his night music now includes a sick-note. zzzzzzz......zzzzz
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Murder Moth Foul
They just make the top ten in my list of phobias and I can cope with small ones but last night there were three in the bathroom that all had small engines. I didn't notice them until I sat down and they didn't move, at first.
I blame SO (my significant other) he not only left the bathroom light on like a bloody lighthouse beacon, he also left the bathroom window open thus affording the winged instruments open passage to their own laser light show, in this case the brace of spotlights.
I wasn't terribly comfortable knowing they were there but I didn't reach the blood curdling yell stage until the biggest one who I swear looked at me with beady eyes and fangs, took of from his position on the tiled wall by the bath. All I could do was close my eyes and cover my face. Of course I felt the batter of his wings against my hair and let out a scream worthy of the hapless victim in a horror romp. SO having managed to extract himself from the telly, bounced up the stairs full of concern. "What's wrong?" he proffered, "I'll tell you what's delete the expletive wrong!, get those delete the expletive, winged delete the expletive out of here now!" replied I.
By this stage I had gathered up a significant wodge of bog roll and was using it to stifle my screams. SO had become the caped crusader complete with shoe box and magazine and was able to capture the largest of the beasts and release it out the bathroom window. I hurriedly made my escape to the bedroom only returning to complete my bed time ablutions when I assumed the coast was clear. The coast might have been clear but the bathroom wasn't; as I was leaning over the wash basin a winged terror rose from behind a tube of facial scrub like a harrier jump jet the buzz of its wings sending a trickle of fear running down my spine. I realised later that the buzz may have been from my toothbrush. I made my escape to the darkness of my bedroom and yelled down to captain comatose that he better get up the stairs pronto and get rid of mothman otherwise my prophecy was that he would be sleeping on the sofa - SO not mothman.
I realise my fear is wholly irrational and that those poor wee creatures would not harm me but the blattering of their wings creates a chaos theory in my head and no amount of cognitive behavioural therapy is going to shift it.
As I said to SO if spiders had wings then he would perhaps understand how I feel. Of course if moths came equipped with false teeth, I would be dead if I had the wit to stiffen ...gibber.
I blame SO (my significant other) he not only left the bathroom light on like a bloody lighthouse beacon, he also left the bathroom window open thus affording the winged instruments open passage to their own laser light show, in this case the brace of spotlights.
I wasn't terribly comfortable knowing they were there but I didn't reach the blood curdling yell stage until the biggest one who I swear looked at me with beady eyes and fangs, took of from his position on the tiled wall by the bath. All I could do was close my eyes and cover my face. Of course I felt the batter of his wings against my hair and let out a scream worthy of the hapless victim in a horror romp. SO having managed to extract himself from the telly, bounced up the stairs full of concern. "What's wrong?" he proffered, "I'll tell you what's delete the expletive wrong!, get those delete the expletive, winged delete the expletive out of here now!" replied I.
By this stage I had gathered up a significant wodge of bog roll and was using it to stifle my screams. SO had become the caped crusader complete with shoe box and magazine and was able to capture the largest of the beasts and release it out the bathroom window. I hurriedly made my escape to the bedroom only returning to complete my bed time ablutions when I assumed the coast was clear. The coast might have been clear but the bathroom wasn't; as I was leaning over the wash basin a winged terror rose from behind a tube of facial scrub like a harrier jump jet the buzz of its wings sending a trickle of fear running down my spine. I realised later that the buzz may have been from my toothbrush. I made my escape to the darkness of my bedroom and yelled down to captain comatose that he better get up the stairs pronto and get rid of mothman otherwise my prophecy was that he would be sleeping on the sofa - SO not mothman.
I realise my fear is wholly irrational and that those poor wee creatures would not harm me but the blattering of their wings creates a chaos theory in my head and no amount of cognitive behavioural therapy is going to shift it.
As I said to SO if spiders had wings then he would perhaps understand how I feel. Of course if moths came equipped with false teeth, I would be dead if I had the wit to stiffen ...gibber.
Friday, 16 July 2010
It's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it
No more money for nothing or unemployment cheques for free. The new Work Programme will replace the current back to work schemes and provide a coherent package of support for people out of work, regardless of the barriers they face or the benefits they claim, or so they say. Unemployed people have rights as citizens they are not the cause of the financial crisis but an easy target to blame - whilst not exactly placing economically inactive people including those on incapacity benefit into a sin bin there is a definite 'moral' undertone - a bit of "priggy banking" going on and a pushing of helping people into work (what work?) and sanctioning those ( i.e. reducing benefits) who don't respond to this help.
We could applaud DC/NC for hot wiring the radical changes to the UK welfare system but that accolade has to rest very firmly with the Brown-Blair bunch and not forgetting Boy David Freud who jumped ship from Tony to Tory (was there ever really a difference?) faster than you can write the word “conditionality”.
But before we call in the Freud squad to deal with the 29% of the working age population who are economically inactive/workless here in Northern Ireland, we need to consider just what the implications of carrot and kick welfare reform Let's take a quick meander through the welfare reforms championed by new labour, the third way and the road to conditionality starring No Hope, Sting Crossly and Definitely No More - we can call it a conditionality health check, or better still a government conditionality warning label ... you are responsible for your inactivity and continuing this will ultimately damage your wealth…. and as for your health well it's not illness at all its merely a bio-pyscho-social condition that requires a number of robust motivational efforts to get you back to work – we'll call it the "carrot and kick" model if you don't like the carrot we'll kick you where it hurts.
Let's look at the redefining of what constitutes incapacity and the associated introduction of the all work test replaced by personal capability assessments and a number of active welfare models. the driver for this is based on the model developed in the US by "Income protection organisations" insurance companies to you and I who sell Vocational Rehabilitation and tailored return to work programmes.
Long term unemployment, economic inactivity and worklessness is everybody's business and for some it's very big business indeed.
The corporate services director of one such Income Protection company with the ear of government noted in 2003 about Pathways to Work
"Although we can say that we are 90 per cent of the way there in policy terms, the real challenge is delivery - in particular the role of the intermediary. We believe that it is absolutely vital that all employment brokers are properly incentivised to move disabled people along the journey into work and that there are enough of them to do the job. The next step therefore is for private sector to work alongside government to achieve delivery, focus and capacity building within the system."
This is echoed by Freud
"The Department (for Work and Pensions)should develop a funding approach which will allow it to direct spending towards such groups, who have complex and demanding problems, in a more individualised way. Such programmes should be outsourced into the private and voluntary sector, giving them the incentive to improve performance".
This "buy one get one free" incentivising of welfare may well fare well for those who put profit before people and indeed Freud himself noted that there was no conclusive evidence to suggest that the private sector out-performed the public sector on current programmes, there were he noted, clear potential gains from contesting services, bringing in innovation with a different skill set, and from the potential to engage with groups who are often beyond the reach of the welfare state.
For those organisations like my own the value proposition that drives us to support people on incapacity benefit and other so called inactive benefits to re-enter or enter sustainable employment is that we know the wider impact of economic inactivity is much more for each individual than the effect they feel in their pocket what we don't do is view people as unit costs and revenue streams and profit margins or base our service on quick wins, or as I heard it described recently "picking the "low hanging fruit" that is doing the least with the easiest to work with. I am not at all convinced by the contention that creaming leaves more resources available to work with the hardest to help.
We and our colleague organisations who have successfully supported hundreds of people back to work, the only incentive needed for them to engage with us is the strength of the relationship of trust that supports, encourages and enables them develop their confidence about work and builds their capacity to make sustainable employment an achievable goal.
Let’s be clear about it, long term unemployment, economic inactivity and worklessness blights communities and lives and it results in children brought up in poverty becoming adults living in poverty. All of us working to support people back to work have a duty and responsibility to do all we can to help them to achieve sustainable employment, economic self sufficiency and a route out of poverty. This should not mean people who have been enabled to stay on ‘silo’ benefits for years and as a result losing skills and confidence for and about work should be seen as the problem or punished by the solution.
We need to work together through for example Neighbourhood Renewal partnerships – where there is clear understanding of local need and the drive and determination to articulate that need fairly and to respond to that need through an enabling process linked to labour market realisms - not a regime that punishes people doubly - one for becoming ill and two for failing to get well soon enough. Either that or perhaps the poor house should open for business again.
We could applaud DC/NC for hot wiring the radical changes to the UK welfare system but that accolade has to rest very firmly with the Brown-Blair bunch and not forgetting Boy David Freud who jumped ship from Tony to Tory (was there ever really a difference?) faster than you can write the word “conditionality”.
But before we call in the Freud squad to deal with the 29% of the working age population who are economically inactive/workless here in Northern Ireland, we need to consider just what the implications of carrot and kick welfare reform Let's take a quick meander through the welfare reforms championed by new labour, the third way and the road to conditionality starring No Hope, Sting Crossly and Definitely No More - we can call it a conditionality health check, or better still a government conditionality warning label ... you are responsible for your inactivity and continuing this will ultimately damage your wealth…. and as for your health well it's not illness at all its merely a bio-pyscho-social condition that requires a number of robust motivational efforts to get you back to work – we'll call it the "carrot and kick" model if you don't like the carrot we'll kick you where it hurts.
Let's look at the redefining of what constitutes incapacity and the associated introduction of the all work test replaced by personal capability assessments and a number of active welfare models. the driver for this is based on the model developed in the US by "Income protection organisations" insurance companies to you and I who sell Vocational Rehabilitation and tailored return to work programmes.
Long term unemployment, economic inactivity and worklessness is everybody's business and for some it's very big business indeed.
The corporate services director of one such Income Protection company with the ear of government noted in 2003 about Pathways to Work
"Although we can say that we are 90 per cent of the way there in policy terms, the real challenge is delivery - in particular the role of the intermediary. We believe that it is absolutely vital that all employment brokers are properly incentivised to move disabled people along the journey into work and that there are enough of them to do the job. The next step therefore is for private sector to work alongside government to achieve delivery, focus and capacity building within the system."
This is echoed by Freud
"The Department (for Work and Pensions)should develop a funding approach which will allow it to direct spending towards such groups, who have complex and demanding problems, in a more individualised way. Such programmes should be outsourced into the private and voluntary sector, giving them the incentive to improve performance".
This "buy one get one free" incentivising of welfare may well fare well for those who put profit before people and indeed Freud himself noted that there was no conclusive evidence to suggest that the private sector out-performed the public sector on current programmes, there were he noted, clear potential gains from contesting services, bringing in innovation with a different skill set, and from the potential to engage with groups who are often beyond the reach of the welfare state.
For those organisations like my own the value proposition that drives us to support people on incapacity benefit and other so called inactive benefits to re-enter or enter sustainable employment is that we know the wider impact of economic inactivity is much more for each individual than the effect they feel in their pocket what we don't do is view people as unit costs and revenue streams and profit margins or base our service on quick wins, or as I heard it described recently "picking the "low hanging fruit" that is doing the least with the easiest to work with. I am not at all convinced by the contention that creaming leaves more resources available to work with the hardest to help.
We and our colleague organisations who have successfully supported hundreds of people back to work, the only incentive needed for them to engage with us is the strength of the relationship of trust that supports, encourages and enables them develop their confidence about work and builds their capacity to make sustainable employment an achievable goal.
Let’s be clear about it, long term unemployment, economic inactivity and worklessness blights communities and lives and it results in children brought up in poverty becoming adults living in poverty. All of us working to support people back to work have a duty and responsibility to do all we can to help them to achieve sustainable employment, economic self sufficiency and a route out of poverty. This should not mean people who have been enabled to stay on ‘silo’ benefits for years and as a result losing skills and confidence for and about work should be seen as the problem or punished by the solution.
We need to work together through for example Neighbourhood Renewal partnerships – where there is clear understanding of local need and the drive and determination to articulate that need fairly and to respond to that need through an enabling process linked to labour market realisms - not a regime that punishes people doubly - one for becoming ill and two for failing to get well soon enough. Either that or perhaps the poor house should open for business again.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Older but not wizened
I have been wondering a bit about getting older – well not getting older but looking and feeling and “acting” older.
I was driving home the other Saturday after the lunch date with my youngest son that didn’t happen because he had been up most of the night at his mate’s house and hadn’t heard my 11.30am call and for some reason I started to think about never really seeing my own mum as old but seeing a very big difference between her at 54 than how I now view myself. I didn’t inherit my mum’s beautiful bone structure or her stunning deep cornflower blue eyes and dark brown hair; I think it jumped a generation because my daughter is very like my mum when she was young. My looks come from my dad’s side of the family including the lantern jaw.
My mum always got her hair permed and would have also got “tips” (highlights/streaks/frosting) which in the 1960s/1970s in small town Northern Ireland was very “daring” but I never, ever remember her having a pair of jeans and she never even wore trousers until she was in her late fifties and even then they were for the winter weather and not for “going out” in. However, when I was a small child my mum had style and I remember her clothes and thinking she was like a film star with her hats and suits. She was pin thin until her sixties and always dressed well even to go the shops. I was 20 when my mum was 53 and my daughter is 29 and today, there is very little difference in the things she and I like and very probably my taste in clothes is a bit more outlandish than my daughter’s whereas my mum very definitely wore clothes I wouldn’t have worn at 20.
Maybe it’s just the change in the time – my mum was the war generation and she and most of her peers didn’t work after having their families; there were of course exceptions but when I think back to primary school, I can’t think of any of my friends’ mums working. Whereas I went back to work with my youngest son was 6 and nowadays working mums pop them out in the morning and return to work in the afternoon (well not really but things have changed again and there is this expectation on new mums to be able to juggle everything and still be perfect).
I keep on wondering when I am going to get into the older person groove and if the 10 years between my younger husband and I will start to create issues. Children together for us didn’t happen even with lots of practice and right now I couldn’t contemplate the idea of having children at primary school; I had my 3 by the time I was 27 and while I absolutely adore my granddaughter and love spending time with her, I am not sure I would have the patience or the stamina to run about after small children full time. Still, I do wonder what would have happened if we had been parents together.
At 54 I don’t have many wrinkles and even my laughter lines are faint. I remember when I was at university one of my fellow students had lines across her forehead like she had just been tilled by a horse drawn plough – including the imprint of the horseshoe between her eyebrows. She was 10 years younger than me but her face was very lined even at 22. I have never smoked and I don’t have those lines etched through my top lip which results in lipstick bleeding like little trails of magma and while I am casual about cleansing, moisturising and toning, apart from my red cheeks, I don’t have too many problems with my skin; as I type this I am wondering if my jutting jaw-line has actually prevented the “side jowl slide” which causes women of my age to reach for the temporary solution of Haemorrhoid cream (slavered on by models long before Botox became de rigueur)the porcelain doll effect of Botox or even the longer-term tautness achieved by the cut and slice of the cosmetic surgeon’s scalpel.
I did worry that losing a bit of ballast would see my fuller face flesh sag and give me the Shar Pei look – I needn’t have worried, the face weight slid off not just down.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my underarm awnings which have all the appeal of scored squid but with none of the bounce back effect. Thus, I am confined to sleeves, shrugs and shawls with upper arms that have all the appeal of part-cooked bread- a small price to pay for being able to drop 6 jeans sizes and squeeze my booty into an airline economy seat. Worth the dough I suppose. I am ashamed to admit that I stand in front of the bathroom mirror with my arms outstretched like the angel of the north and examine them with the bingo wings out of camera and see these lovely sculpted and toned svelte branches before allowing the tenderised tripe to blot my fantasy landscape.
It’s been a while from I meandered aimlessly like this and I have realised that I need balance – no I am not suggesting I want my inner thighs to hang round my knees flapping in the breeze but it is appreciating that stopping to smile about the daftness of it all is as important as being driven and serious.
Know what? I wouldn’t change any of me; well maybe just a teeny weeny nip and tuck here and there wouldn’t hurt balance and all that.
I was driving home the other Saturday after the lunch date with my youngest son that didn’t happen because he had been up most of the night at his mate’s house and hadn’t heard my 11.30am call and for some reason I started to think about never really seeing my own mum as old but seeing a very big difference between her at 54 than how I now view myself. I didn’t inherit my mum’s beautiful bone structure or her stunning deep cornflower blue eyes and dark brown hair; I think it jumped a generation because my daughter is very like my mum when she was young. My looks come from my dad’s side of the family including the lantern jaw.
My mum always got her hair permed and would have also got “tips” (highlights/streaks/frosting) which in the 1960s/1970s in small town Northern Ireland was very “daring” but I never, ever remember her having a pair of jeans and she never even wore trousers until she was in her late fifties and even then they were for the winter weather and not for “going out” in. However, when I was a small child my mum had style and I remember her clothes and thinking she was like a film star with her hats and suits. She was pin thin until her sixties and always dressed well even to go the shops. I was 20 when my mum was 53 and my daughter is 29 and today, there is very little difference in the things she and I like and very probably my taste in clothes is a bit more outlandish than my daughter’s whereas my mum very definitely wore clothes I wouldn’t have worn at 20.
Maybe it’s just the change in the time – my mum was the war generation and she and most of her peers didn’t work after having their families; there were of course exceptions but when I think back to primary school, I can’t think of any of my friends’ mums working. Whereas I went back to work with my youngest son was 6 and nowadays working mums pop them out in the morning and return to work in the afternoon (well not really but things have changed again and there is this expectation on new mums to be able to juggle everything and still be perfect).
I keep on wondering when I am going to get into the older person groove and if the 10 years between my younger husband and I will start to create issues. Children together for us didn’t happen even with lots of practice and right now I couldn’t contemplate the idea of having children at primary school; I had my 3 by the time I was 27 and while I absolutely adore my granddaughter and love spending time with her, I am not sure I would have the patience or the stamina to run about after small children full time. Still, I do wonder what would have happened if we had been parents together.
At 54 I don’t have many wrinkles and even my laughter lines are faint. I remember when I was at university one of my fellow students had lines across her forehead like she had just been tilled by a horse drawn plough – including the imprint of the horseshoe between her eyebrows. She was 10 years younger than me but her face was very lined even at 22. I have never smoked and I don’t have those lines etched through my top lip which results in lipstick bleeding like little trails of magma and while I am casual about cleansing, moisturising and toning, apart from my red cheeks, I don’t have too many problems with my skin; as I type this I am wondering if my jutting jaw-line has actually prevented the “side jowl slide” which causes women of my age to reach for the temporary solution of Haemorrhoid cream (slavered on by models long before Botox became de rigueur)the porcelain doll effect of Botox or even the longer-term tautness achieved by the cut and slice of the cosmetic surgeon’s scalpel.
I did worry that losing a bit of ballast would see my fuller face flesh sag and give me the Shar Pei look – I needn’t have worried, the face weight slid off not just down.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my underarm awnings which have all the appeal of scored squid but with none of the bounce back effect. Thus, I am confined to sleeves, shrugs and shawls with upper arms that have all the appeal of part-cooked bread- a small price to pay for being able to drop 6 jeans sizes and squeeze my booty into an airline economy seat. Worth the dough I suppose. I am ashamed to admit that I stand in front of the bathroom mirror with my arms outstretched like the angel of the north and examine them with the bingo wings out of camera and see these lovely sculpted and toned svelte branches before allowing the tenderised tripe to blot my fantasy landscape.
It’s been a while from I meandered aimlessly like this and I have realised that I need balance – no I am not suggesting I want my inner thighs to hang round my knees flapping in the breeze but it is appreciating that stopping to smile about the daftness of it all is as important as being driven and serious.
Know what? I wouldn’t change any of me; well maybe just a teeny weeny nip and tuck here and there wouldn’t hurt balance and all that.
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