Showing posts with label Money. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Money. Show all posts

Monday, September 13, 2010

Hitting Australians When They’re Down: Unemployment Payments and the Demonisation of the Unemployed


During the 2007 election, Kevin Rudd’s mantra of support for ‘working families’ caused many a journalistic snigger. During the recent election, the two larger parties were rightly derided for their shameless dog whistling in regard to an irrational fear of a few thousand unfortunate boat people.

But to my knowledge no journalist has admitted that the concept of working families is in itself a form of dog whistling. The unmentionable ‘other’ is of course the ‘non-working family’ – as well as, heaven help them, the single unemployed who have failed to fulfil even their reproductive duties. Julia Gillard’s announcement during the campaign that unemployed people would be stripped of their benefits if they did not turn up to employment interviews was a whistle so clear it could have been heard by every toy poodle in Paris.

In the current climate it is politically unwise to mention unemployed people in the mainstream media, the very group that is most in need of the assistance of government, unless it is in the context of turning them into part of the favoured group – the employed (a worthwhile aim, but not one that justifies starvation-level payments). Both of the larger parties are now willing to alternately demonise and disregard this group of Australians in order to appeal to the ignoramuses in the country’s most marginal seats.

Not only does this process create a convenient scapegoat, but it also makes it easier for the parties to ignore the very real suffering caused by the grossly inadequate welfare payments that unemployed people receive, confident that Australians like you and I won’t be clamouring for change. If the unemployed are inherently shifty, if they are markedly less deserving than aged pensioners and those with disabilities, and if they cannot be trusted to have a good reason for not attending an employment interview, they should be grateful for what they get.

The rhetoric of the deserving and undeserving poor is not simply a matter of semantics; it has huge ramifications for the kind and level of support that people down on their luck receive. After the 2009 bushfires in Victoria, the country watched astounded as an avalanche of community goodwill and generosity blanketed the survivors, many of whom had lost most of their belongings. Donations of goods quickly arrived by the truckload and some people even offered cars and caravans to the victims. The Victorian Bushfire Appeal eventually raised an astonishing $379 million.

Yet later that year the federal government had no difficulty selling the fact that the 2009 budget included a $32.50 increase to disability and age pensions while the Newstart (unemployment) Allowance, already significantly lower than the pension, remained unchanged (in July 2010 it was a miserly $231 a week for a single adult). Perhaps governments fear the goodheartedness of their citizens as much as they fear unpopularity; a fully informed citizenry might clamour for a tax system that funded adequate unemployment benefits, leaving less money for electoral bribes to the pampered middle class.

This situation is all the more offensive given that unemployment is an accepted part of, and even considered vital to, the running of modern growth-based economies. Zero unemployment is said to lead to wages growth, which may lead to inflation, and high inflation is a politician’s worst nightmare. Governments are therefore busy scapegoating a group whose disadvantaged status it is arguably in their interests to maintain. (Outrageous growth in executive salaries, however, is assumed to have no effect on inflation.)

Poor people weren’t always the scapegoats of politicians. Remember Bob Hawke’s impassioned declaration in 1987 that no Australian child would live in poverty by 1990? At the time he was laughed at for having such a lofty and unachievable goal. But compare the urgency of his rhetoric, and the apparent electoral importance of the issue at the time, with the silence on poor children, as opposed to average families, today.

So what’s the situation for those receiving Newstart Allowance in Australia? Here are some disturbing facts:

• About 600,000 Australians receive the Newstart Allowance. More than half of them have been receiving it for over a year.

• The Newstart payment for a single adult was only $33 a day in July 2010. This is almost $120 a week lower than the Disability Support Pension, and less than half the minimum wage.

• In July 2010, a family with two children headed by an unemployed sole parent had to make do on only $460 per week.

• While Newstart has not increased in real terms for almost two decades, in the last ten years electricity costs have nearly doubled (91 per cent), while housing and health costs combined have risen by about 60 per cent.

• The national unemployment rate for 15 to 19-year-olds was almost 17 per cent in June 2010.

• Providers of job services for long-term unemployed people receive an average of only $500 per person to assist them to return to work, less than most other wealthy nations.

In the absence of visibility, unemployed people endure a hardship that the rest of Australia, apart from the welfare sector, largely ignores. Many will be forced to accept food parcels, clothing and emergency payments from charitable organisations. Large numbers will shiver in cold houses or risk getting the electricity disconnected because they can’t afford to pay heating bills. Unemployed single parents will watch helplessly as their children are marginalised through their inability to provide for their educational needs. The threat of homelessness will loom when the rent goes up or a long-term landlord decides to sell. The costs of petrol and public transport, especially for those living in remote areas, may be prohibitive.

In its 2010 election statement, Australia’s peak welfare body, the Australian Council of Social Service (ACOSS), asserted that blaming unemployed people for their predicament was ‘both cruel and pointless’. It called for wholesale reform of the welfare payment system to reflect the cost of living, and for the single adult rate of Newstart to be immediately increased by $45 a week.

Yet from the moment of her ascension to the prime ministership, Gillard’s rhetoric has in effect been moving in the opposite direction, suggesting that first and foremost it is the business, even the duty, of government to reward those who are lucky enough to have work – those good, solid, irreproachable folk who ‘set their alarms early’. In her acceptance speech she affirmed that ‘I believe in a government that rewards those who work the hardest’.

During this speech Gillard acknowledged the role of the entire workforce in bringing Australia through the GFC relatively unscathed – ‘the working people, employers, employees, the trade unions, the small and big businesses, the employer associations who all made this possible’. Yet she failed to commiserate with those whose lives were thrown into chaos due to the rise in unemployment at the height of the GFC.

It’s true that during the GFC many employers, fearing a skills shortage, reduced their employees’ hours rather than sacking them, and good on those who did; it’s also true that the official unemployment rate, which is always far lower than the actual rate, rose to 5.8 per cent, an increase of 1.6 per cent, between May 2008 and August 2009. For Gillard, employers and employees who weathered the storm were worthy of congratulations, but not any former workers that employers had dumped to maintain the viability of their businesses.

This kind of rhetoric signals an astonishing reversal of the self-definition of a Labor government, which has traditionally associated itself with advocating for the disadvantaged. It also ignores one of the most important roles of the tax system: to redistribute the nation’s wealth in order to improve equity.

Objective 3 (a) of the ALP constitution states that the party stands for ‘the abolition of poverty, and the achievement of greater equality in the distribution of income, wealth and opportunity’. Point 23 in Chapter 7 of Labor’s national platform makes a direct reference to unemployment benefits, revealing that the ALP’s aim is, in fact, that they be sufficient to live on. It states that Labor is ‘committed to ensuring that pensions and allowances support a decent standard of living and full participation in Australian society’.

In addition, through the tax system governments of all stripes are required to redistribute resources to make society more equitable. That’s not some socialist goal; it is reiterated in the Henry tax review, which unequivocally states that ‘Australia’s tax and transfer system needs to raise and redistribute revenue efficiently, equitably (my italics) and in a fiscally sustainable manner …’

Sadly, the present low level of Newstart payments is counter to both Labor objectives and the fundamental role of taxation. They fail to take into account the most basic realities of the cost of living – housing, for instance.

According to housing advocacy group National Shelter, rents are rising at a rate three times that of the Consumer Price Index (CPI). In the March quarter 2010, the median rental for a newly let one-bedroom flat in Sydney was $385 – almost $100 more than the single adult rate of Newstart and the maximum weekly Rent Assistance payment ($56.70) combined! In addition, the miserly Newstart Allowance ensures that the costs associated with searching for work – transport, decent clothing, access to computers and so on – are prohibitive.

To make matters worse, the gap between unemployment payments and pensions will continue to widen if the system isn’t overhauled. This is because increases in the former are calculated using the CPI, while pensions increase in line with wages, which are historically higher than the CPI. In addition, Newstart recipients face significantly harsher income tests than do those receiving the DSP, and lengthy waiting periods if they have substantial savings.

If Gillard’s rhetoric uses silence and innuendo to suggest an undeserving poor, the Howard government deployed a metaphorical pick-axe in its wrecking of the public image of unemployed people. Following its 1996 election victory the Coalition began demonising unemployed people with particular zeal; they were lazy dole bludgers who were lucky to get anything.

The government introduced Work for the Dole and the concept of mutual obligation, tightened access to benefits and reduced levels of payment in some instances. Tony Abbott coined the term ‘job snobs’ and reportedly claimed that the welfare state encouraged welfare dependency, while Mal Brough falsely stated that one in six unemployed people were ‘cruisers’ and ‘dole bludgers’ who were exploiting ‘the generosity of the Australian taxpayer to fund their lifestyle choice’.

At the same time, the Howard government reduced the ability of the welfare sector to challenge these negative images by effectively muzzling it. It defunded some advocacy groups, required welfare organisations to provide advance warning of any public criticisms of the government, and threatened to introduce legislation that would take tax breaks away from non-government organisations that advocated changes to legislation, if this advocacy was ‘more than ancillary or incidental to their core purpose’.

The rhetoric of the undeserving poor helped to justify Howard’s refusal to increase Newstart (and pension) payments despite the economic boom, as well as his shameless finessing of middle-class electoral bribery and tax rorts for the wealthy to stay in power (what the Welfare Rights Unit labels ‘upside-down welfare’).

Howard changed the tenor of federal budgets, turning them into Christmas-style handouts for voters who were encouraged to care only about how they would benefit financially. He increased funding for wealthy private schools, introduced a rebate for private health insurance and created a First Home Owners Grant. In 2006, Coalition treasurer Peter Costello announced profligate superannuation concessions that blatantly favoured the wealthy and created a tax rort for older high-income earners.

The Labor government has continued to produce regressive policies and encourage the ‘gimme gimme’ attitude of voters. Its proposed ‘cash for clunkers’ (Cleaner Car Rebate) scheme – which may now be on the scrapheap – is a relatively minor example. The scheme would throw $2000 at those who could already afford to buy a brand new car, and would no doubt be enthusiastically taken up by comfortably-off parents whose university-attending children were currently driving bombs.

More disturbingly, the government foregoes billions of dollars in tax revenue each year by giving generous tax breaks, such as negative gearing, to property investors. (This policy has also contributed to steep increases in the price of property, and therefore helped to fuel rent increases that have worsened hardship for the poor.) Moreover, despite the recommendations of the Henry review, the Labor government has maintained the superannuation concessions for the wealthy, concessions that are costing the country billions. Removing these property investment and superannuation tax breaks would release funds for fairer Newstart payments, so that the poorest Australians could afford the basics.

The mainstream media has been doing little to champion the rights of unemployed people. This year the voice of the social welfare lobby was conspicuously absent from post-budget ABC radio news bulletins, while Lateline did its bit to keep social justice out of the post-budget discussion.

On the program that followed the budget speech of 11 May 2010, the only non-government perspective was given by the dry-as-dust Chris Richardson from Access Economics (Richardson is, in any case, a former Treasury staffer). Predictably he called for the government to cut spending, failing to distinguish between worthwhile and wasteful spending; interviewer Leigh Sales made no attempt to challenge either the social or economic basis for this assessment.

In fact, while the ABC is obsessed with balance, in the area of social justice it makes no attempt to give equal time. Journalists are required to be fluent in the rhetoric and jargon of neoliberalism, so why aren’t they equally familiar with the concepts of social justice, equity and inequality?

On the contrary, seasoned interviewers such as Fran Kelly and Kerry O’Brien repeatedly fail to call politicians to account on the regressive aspects of their budget and election giveaways. Nor do they raise the contradiction inherent in politicians repeatedly saying they can’t afford to fund adequate income support and services for disadvantaged people while blithely handing out tax cuts to those who don’t need them. In the fourth estate, the idea of a nation that supports the ‘fair go’ seems to have been abandoned.

This lack of oversight has enabled the government to make life increasingly difficult for disadvantaged people, the unemployed among them. Initially applied to Indigenous welfare recipients in the Northern Territory, welfare quarantining for non-Indigenous welfare recipients was to be rolled out in the NT from July this year, despite evidence that it doesn’t work. It will apply to long-term unemployed people, some young people on benefits, those deemed to be at risk of financial crisis or domestic abuse and people referred by child protection authorities. At the end of 2011 the scheme will be assessed with the possibility that it could be rolled out nationally.

This scheme costs a whacking $4400 per person on average, money that would be much better spent on family intervention programs – such as those run by Uniting Care, which cost less and are proven to work – as well as treatment for addictions, financial counselling services, greater job search assistance and an increase in allowances. ACOSS has labelled the scheme ‘a top-down, one-size-fits-all, bureaucratic solution to complex social problems’ that is ‘poorly targeted and expensive’ and will ‘inflict shame and indignity on income support recipients’.

In an eloquent example of bipartisanship between the two larger parties, prior to the election Tony Abbott declared that he approved of the scheme and suggested that he would implement it if the Coalition won government.

If governments can get away with such an ineffectual and even harmful policy with little public protest, there is a strong risk that unemployed people will be unfairly targeted in other ways when the economic good times are gone.

The UK offers a sobering example of what can happen when the concept of the undeserving poor takes hold. According to journalist Johann Hari, the people most able to shoulder the burden of David Cameron’s obsession with reducing debt – the wealthy – aren’t being asked to do so.

Instead, in another example of the twisted logic of upside-down welfare, the poor are being hit; the unemployed, for example, will lose £6.50 from the £65 they receive a week. Hari quotes a chilling off-the-record remark made to The Times by a government minister: ‘the undeserving poor are undeserving’. He goes on to show that cutting government spending is not only bad for poor people, but also disastrous for the economy – that is, it will simply create more poor people.

So how to counter both the demonisation of and the silence around unemployment? How to build sufficient momentum in the community to pressure the government to raise unemployment payments to reflect the cost of living?

The human brain thrives on narrative. Australians need to hear the voices and stories of unemployed people themselves, and to begin to understand what their lives are like. Just as Howard knew that it was vital to prevent the media from humanising the Tampa boat people, both the government and the Coalition no doubt realise that if unemployed people were to tell their stories they would receive a measure of sympathy from the community.

The voices of unemployed people can be heard in a report the Brotherhood of St Laurence produced in March this year, Making Work Pay and Making Income Support Work. The report found that the social security and tax systems created significant barriers for people trying to return to work and combining part-time work with welfare payments. It called for ‘a wide-ranging overhaul of income support, housing and employment services’ to ease the transition. But in doing so it also exploded the popular myth that the unemployed are somehow different from, and less motivated than, the rest of us. Conversely, it found that:

… given their personal circumstances, income support recipients are shown to make sensible decisions regarding engagement with paid work … in stark contrast with the stereotypes of welfare recipients as ‘dependent on welfare’ or incapable of making ‘responsible’ decisions …

Indeed, the report concluded that ‘even the most disadvantaged participants held positive attitudes to paid work’. It laudably includes quotes from unemployed people themselves – people like Ian, who says: ‘I want to be cut off the [Newstart] payment as quick as possible … to get back to work, even if it’s just a bit over Newstart, I’d rather do that’.

The welfare sector needs to continue its fight to get the issue of unemployment payments into the mainstream media, and to tell the stories behind the statistics. In turn, journalists need to understand that the experiences of disadvantaged people are vital to presenting a complete picture of this country, and to bringing back the concept of the ‘fair go’; but they also need to realise that news stories that don’t demonise the poor or oversimplify their circumstances make for stronger, more accurate and more hard-hitting journalism.

The policies of both the Coalition and Labor need to incorporate basic fairness for unemployed people through income support payments that enable them to retain dignity and a lifestyle not ravaged by desperate want. The Greens haven’t specified a particular level of increase for Newstart payments in their policy platform, but say they want to ‘simplify the system of targeted pensions and allowances into a universal guaranteed adequate income scheme’. Now that they have obtained the balance of power in the Senate, it’s vital that they push to bring unemployment payments into line with pensions. They should also maintain their opposition to welfare quarantining.

Unemployment can happen to anyone who is an employee, and a fairer, more cohesive society benefits every single one of us. Our new minority government needs to foster in this wealthy country a generosity of spirit and an understanding of the right of every Australian to a standard of living that preserves dignity, enables participation and provides the basis for creating a better future.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

A task unfinished: the tyranny of the recurring dream


In 1980, when I did what was then the HSC, the last year of schooling in Victoria, I got good marks. Not top marks, but enough to get into one of the most prestigious uni courses of the time – Arts Law at Melbourne University.

Even after all this time, the two words 'arts' and 'law' when used together summon up for me a magic that is indivisible. They evoke an arcane world of fun and study, of unknown but friendly young men and kind, dedicated tutors, a kind of playground of the mind. I did not see a clear future beyond the course and had no strong image of myself as a fully fledged lawyer. Rather, I believed I was entering an intellectual fun parlour, that everything from now on would be exciting in a way that would require little effort.

Not a small part of this was the prestige of Melbourne Uni and the fact that it was in an almost unknown part of town beguilingly far away, just beyond the city centre.

Unbelievably from this vantage point, university study was virtually free at the time in Australia, apart from a hefty student union fee that subsidised a hell of a lot of drinking and sport (I’m not against student unionism, but that’s another story).

If I was commencing a law course in 2009 and had earned a government-subsidised place (formally called HECS, now changed to Commonwealth Supported Place or CSP) the law course alone would cost me $8677 per year. If my marks were decent but not high enough for the CSP course, I would expect to pay more than $20,000 a year to complete a fee-paying law degree, although the Australian Government is phasing out full fee-paying courses for domestic students. (These figures are for the law course alone; my bill would have been slightly lower as an Arts Law student because I was studying fewer law subjects per year, as well as arts subjects.)

Anyways. The sheen took a while to wear off – Melbourne Uni and the bohemian and gelati mecca of nearby Lygon Street were like fairyland for a while – but in about six weeks disillusionment and social anxiety had well and truly set in.

I don’t want to rehearse my complete inability to cope with the lack of structure of uni life – in those days, there was a great deal of informal orientation from student clubs but nothing structured, no mentoring or buddy programs. All I need to say is that my planning skills were zilch; I was only ever motivated to study when the teachers and the subject matter grabbed me (which had miraculously happened in HSC but didn’t happen at uni in either Japanese or law, and even English was disappointing); I had severe undiagnosed social phobia resulting in emotional retardation and lack of social skills; I had an undiagnosed, garden-variety eating disorder; the fact that there were no fees made me incredibly blasé about the whole thing; and my parents had told me I could live at home but would be responsible for all my expenses. Any fool (except me) could see that the prognosis was not good.

To cut a long story short, I eventually dropped out of law, after barely scraping a pass in first year and failing both subjects in second. And, although I eventually managed a limp Arts degree, I crashed at Jap. In both Jap and law, I was defeated by the severe amount of study and the fact that the work in these areas was difficult and required thought and application – at school I’d mostly gotten away with doing well in subjects that came fairly easy to me.

But – and this is the crux of the issue – I had less nous than a baby ant when it came to actually doing anything about the pile-up of unstudied articles and case law, unlearned vocab and grammar. Once an amount of control had been lost, I did not even try to deal with it. I simply let go, and the balloon of university success bobbed away and became invisible. I did not, in any conscious way, stress about this. Actually dropping out of a subject before failure would have been an active acknowledgement of my dilemma that I was at the time incapable of.

I finally returned to study a decade or so later when I completed a Masters prelim part time at La Trobe University, and then a Masters degree in English at Melbourne Uni, supported by a scholarship. After that I did a diploma in publishing and editing at RMIT. Because I’d written a lot of poetry and attended poetry workshops over the years, I received quite a few credits in the RMIT course, so got the diploma without having completed the required number of subjects.

This is all necessary background for the topic of this entry – recurring dreams.

I’ve had different recurring dreams. When I finally found the twelve-step program that helped with my eating disorder, in my early thirties, I went through a period where I was constantly having birth trauma dreams. In these dreams I was in a confined, tube-like structure, horribly claustrophobic, struggling to move through it to the entrance. Sometimes this structure was a concrete pipe, sometimes a narrow tunnel in the earth. These dreams may have been the symptoms of a primal fear of being stuck in the birth canal. They eventually ceased, so perhaps I worked through this fear.

But in the last five years I’ve started having another kind of dream. In this dream, I have a huge amount of work to do, but have been incredibly forgetful and somehow missed at least a semester and sometimes nearly a year of work. In the dream I realise I have only weeks to cover an entire years’ work. There’s no getting out of the work: I must do it.

The funny thing is that, in the way these types of dreams relate to my life, the chronology of my study history has been reversed. The dreams were originally about the later RMIT course, and my guilt about having received credits for its completion (this guilt was misplaced, because as well as all the poetry experience, in 1985, not long after getting my original Arts degree, I’d done a few subjects in one of the first TAFE writing courses in Melbourne, and never bothered trying to get credits for these subjects).

In the RMIT-related recurring dream I would find myself in some kind of classroom situation (the settings often mixed up with old workplaces). I was hopelessly behind because I’d somehow forgotten that I was doing the course, and was finally turning up to class. A teacher who was a favourite in real life would be presiding over the dream class, adding to my guilt. I’d calculate with dismay just how much work I would need to do in the next few weeks, and then wake up with a delicious relief.

Eventually this version of the dream ceased. By the time this occurred the RMIT diploma had been hanging on my office wall for at least two years and I think it had finally entered my unconscious mind that the course was well and truly finished, credits or no credits.

But I’m now having a variant on this kind of dream. In this variant I’m a post-grad law student, and have been inexplicably absent from the course. In this dream I find myself with mountains of work to do and only weeks to do it in (it’s always assignments, not exam preparation, perhaps suggesting the editing work I do now).

The meanings of this variation of the original recurring dream seems obvious to me.

When I was dipping out on the law subjects more 25 years ago, I was blind to the practical implications, thought little about what my future would be, and didn’t lose sleep. In fact, I’ve always known I wasn’t suited to law. Even if I’d completed the degree, I probably would never have practised. For most of the years after that failure, my lack of suitability to a law career appeared to justify my dropping out.

But while I was slacking off, smugly thinking that the law students who studied were ‘sucks’, underneath the neurosis and my disillusionment with uni life I was probably feeling a perfectly healthy guilt at my laziness, a guilt that the other, stronger feelings were crowding out. Somewhere in an unknown part of myself I knew there was work to be done, and perhaps now these guilt feelings have gradually burrowed out of their hidey-hole and are coming to light.

But as we grow older we view our personal histories with ever more sophistication and understanding, and these dreams also have a cognitive element. Over the years I’ve met enough rich lawyers and law degree holders to come to understand that a law degree, even if never used to practice law, would have done me absolutely no harm and improved my wages in a variety of fields. My older self now understands that I was throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The fact is, when I dropped out of law I had no burning desire to do anything else (except, interestingly, journalism – and a law degree would have got me a much better entry position). After three years of low-paid regional and suburban journalism, I ended up doing low-paid work in the community sector, where I watched well-paid social policy officers with law degrees write policy papers.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that the whole RMIT recurring dream was just a rehearsal for the main event – a dawning sense of the unfinished law course. Part of me knows there’s a course I haven’t tackled, a job waiting to be done. I wonder now whether I’ll ever stop having this dream, because I’ll never stop being affected by the lack of a law degree.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Theft in a cafe


I wrote this short piece quite a few years ago but it’s never been published, so I thought I’d give it an airing here.

There was wood everywhere: stick-like chairs, honey-coloured pine floors with the oily flatness derived from thousands of footsteps, slim wooden venetians, and redwood stairs that went up past the counter to the toilets. My fat morone wallet was gone; the small café was hugely empty, and so was my black shoulder bag: it felt too light.

My father said, frowning, “I wish I’d been more vigilant.”

My mother said, “I saw the woman tripping down the stairs. She fell in a very strange way.”

The waitress, who had a heart-shaped face and delicate features, said: “They both looked very odd. They looked like they were on something.”

They had been sitting behind us. The chairs of the woman and I had their backs to each other. The consensus was that the woman had pretended to trip down the stairs on the way back from the toilet. As she landed, throwing her arms wildly forward, she had pulled out the wallet from my bag, which lay next to my chair. The zip of the bag had been open. This was what my mother had seen: that strange lunge, which must have ended in a neat, successful operation.

“They left very quickly,” said the waitress. “They hadn’t ordered anything.”

The afternoon melted away in an instant. We would go back to the house, and cancel the cards.

We went back to the house and cancelled the cards. As I talked into the phone my father, perched on the edge of his chair, began to sketch in pencil a profile of the woman my mother had described. “Is that about right?” he asked my mother. “Kind of – the nose was more pointy.” He kept sketching, adding length to the nose, more detail to the long, straggly hair.

Then he and I drove down to the police station, which was round the corner from the café.

“Where next?” my father kept saying at each corner, “where next?”

The reception area with its wide, bare counter was empty and silent. The policeman who appeared was young and reedy, with a long, smooth face and knowing expression. He was so tall he had to lean down awkwardly on the dirty green counter to fill in the form. I signed it and started to leave. “Would this be any use to you, constable?” said my father, holding out the sketch he had made of the woman. The policeman looked bemused; my father’s hand dropped, and he turned and opened the door for me.

We parted to hunt the alleyways. I peered at skips, and through grills into drains; I stared into the bowels of litter bins. I wandered past bulging green garbage bags full of rotten food, piled up in the corners of lanes. As I searched, people sat chatting on outdoor tables, or walked in and out of the shopping mall with their gelati. Ostensibly I wanted to retrieve the spare front door key I’d foolishly left in the wallet, and my numerous cards; but I chiefly yearned to see the rectangular shape I knew so well, its exact tinge of faded morone.

When we got back the cottage smelt of brewing coffee. There had been no phone call to say the wallet had been found. We decided I should wait to change the locks until the following day. There was a small bolt at the bottom of the front door, and my father lay on his side and hammered away at it. My mother and I sat in the adjacent lounge, sipping coffee and eating biscotti as he worked.

“It was my fault,” I said. “Leaving the zip of my bag undone. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Nonsense,” said my mother. “She stole it from you. She was an awful woman.”

“She’s an addict,” I said, staring at the sketch of the woman’s profile, which now lay on the coffee table between us. “Her life must be hell – always having to scramble for her next hit.

“If heroin was legal this would never have happened,” I added, warming to my theme. “Did you know that methadone’s more damaging than heroin because it’s a synthetic drug?”

“What?” said my mother. She looked as if she was torn between complete disbelief and a desire to have the statement properly explained. My father sat up and put the hammer down. There were tiny flakes of white paint on the carpet under the place where he had shifted the socket of the bolt. “That’s a lot of bull,” he said. “The Salvation Army says we need more detox and zero tolerance. Sweden tried your idea and now they’re back to zero tolerance.”

I didn’t know whether he was right about Sweden so I kept quiet.

When my parents left they asked me what I would do that evening. I said I was going to sip camomile tea and watch a bit of tele. My mother told me she had recently seen herbal tea served in a little coffee plunger. “It makes just the right amount,” she said. “About one and a half cups.”

As soon as they had gone I lay down on my bed in the darkness. It felt as if the blood was slowly seeping out of my veins and spreading through my entire body. I got up and went back into the loungeroom. I grabbed my father’s sketch and started jabbing at it with a pen until it started to tear. I tore the larger bits into small pieces with my fingers.

Later, getting ready for bed, I imagined waking suddenly in the dark, cold steel against my throat.

--------

The next day I put the money my father had given me into my makeup bag and took the tram into the city. A woman and a four-year-old boy got on at Johnston St. The woman sat down at a right angle to me, so that I could see her profile. She was young-looking, with straggly blonde hair and pinched eyes.

“Are we in the city?” asked the four-year-old. “Not yet,” his mother replied, “but we will be soon. You sit over there.”

He started to climb onto her lap. “I want to press the button,” he said, straining to reach the bright red button on the steel pole beside her. “No, Cameron,” she said. “It’s not time to get off yet.”

But he persisted, giggling and protesting at the same time, moving his hand up towards the button as she simultaneously pushed it away. His eyes weren’t looking at her at all; he seemed to know he did not have a chance but felt compelled to ritualistically repeat the action.

“Get away from me,” she said. “I don’t want you near me. Go and sit on the other end of the tram.”

She tried to push him off her lap but he continued to reach for the button, alternating between frustrated sobs and mirthless laughter.

“I’ll ring Glen,” she said. “And he’ll get you. You know what Glen’ll do to you.” She reached into her bag, took out a mobile and began dialling.

The boy’s face puckered. “No,” he wailed. “Don’t call Glen.” He began punching her legs, then threw his head back, sobbing and swinging his torso back and forth. “He’s not there,” said his mother, putting the phone back into her bag. “But I’m going to tell him how naughty you’ve been.”

It was time for them to get off. Reluctantly she let him push the red button, then she walked firmly down the steps of the tram ahead of him. He cried and laughed, and strained to put his hands around her disappearing waist.

Friday, March 27, 2009

The pleasures and sorrows of work (with apologies to Alain de Botton)


I exist in two different dimensions or modes of being. One is when I have no work. The other is when I have some. I am two different selves in these separate universes and what I love best is hanging around in the hallway between the two, anticipating work and enjoying my precious hours of freedom.

When I have no work, which is often at the moment, I am free. I’m in control of my life; admin tasks are done when I feel like it. I get around to clearing my in tray and my email inbox. I freewheel a bit. I walk my sister's dog Jordan any time in the morning that feels right. I work on my blogs. I have long discussions with my friend Simon, a semi-retired semi-single leftie (he thinks this term is obsolete, and prefers to be called 'progressive') about the travesty that is Australian politics.

I start to focus on the small things. Why haven’t I finished scrubbing the mildew-ridden kitchen ceiling, as my anally retentive property manager ‘advised’ me to do? Isn’t the garage horribly cluttered? Why don’t I ever get enough sleep? Why does everybody around me have more money than I do?

I start to worry about money. Perhaps I’ll never work again. What will happen as my savings run down? What about the far-flung future? I’ll be old and unlovable and poor. I go to Target and console myself with a bargain or two. I wait like Penelope for the money to come through from my last job. I abuse the accounts people when they send it to the wrong account (well I did on Thursday and for this and all my sins I am very sorry, and embarrassed).

I develop a low-level depression. I begin to feel disengaged from the world. At a family gathering some well-meaning rellie asks for the thousandth time whether it is hard to be disciplined working from home and I secretly snigger, thinking of my increasingly undisciplined ways and reply (I’m quite pleased with this reply because it hides a multitude of sins) that when the work comes in I do it quickly ’cos I want the money.

Then I get desperate. I resort to pleading with the universe for a small, do-able job that’s within my comfort zone. And I stoop to a new age trick that works every time – I visualise people delivering wads of $100 bills to my door on trolleys, so many wads of green bills that the spare room is chock-full of them. I see myself in this room, dancing around and laughing as I wildly throw bills in the air.

It works every time. But only too well. This time two new jobs came through one after the other, and I burnt my new-ish, favourite saucepan.

There was no lovely in-between anticipation of work. I was right in the middle of juggling and my other self, my other mode of being, stepped in.

I need to explain that something truly terrible happened to me once I became a freelance editor. I have always been angst and anxiety ridden in many-faceted ways, and my difficulties coping with colleagues in the workplace gradually made things worse. So I chose freelancing as a way to avoid this and it seemed to work for a while.

But sadly, the difficult life of a freelancer doing major editing jobs (books, training modules, CD-ROMs) seems to have sensitised me to work-related stress. Now it’s the work I dread, and the accompanying physical and emotional exhaustion. It’s almost intolerable for me to have a large job, for instance one running over three weeks, hanging over my head. Jobs must be small and manageable.

So I just don’t do the big jobs any more. Which is a shame because that’s where the money is.

But right now I am juggling two smallish jobs. And already I’ve burnt a saucepan. What next? Last night I watched a snippet of a late-night movie in which the main character was driving distractedly and crashed into the car ahead. Immediately I started thinking about how complicated my life would be if I had a similar bingle with these two jobs still unfinished.

Sleep is becoming more difficult. There’s work to be done goddam it, says my overdeveloped superego. I’ve started to worry about what will happen as the jobs continue and I get more sleep deprived.

And the most difficult thing. I've started thinking about every single small undone job in my life as well as future routine tasks and every one of them MUST BE DONE NOW. Well, sort of. I ignore this, but what I’m ignoring is a parcel of dread at the thought of my still-untreated warts, the bill I forgot to pay on Friday, the hours that a hair appointment on Thursday will take out of my busy work day, my future neglect of Jordan.

So I guess in the midst of this I’ll knuckle down and do the work. But if anyone reading has any suggestions apart from meditating (sadly I can’t meditate when I am in this state – there’s work to be done!) they’ll be very welcome.

(photo courtesy of Freeimages)