So I get a letter this morning from the gov't about my pension. Thought it might have been mis-labeled and meant for my dad, who has been sorting out his own in recent months. Nope, it was for me, the youngest member of the house, 37 years away from collecting a pension. Basically to tell me that by the time I'm old enough to collect anything, I'll be getting £82 a week (at today's prices). Wow. That's actually less than I was earning at Blockbuster, who paid me minimum wage. The nice government people were letting me know this, and recommending that I either work harder, or buy a private pension plan, because basically they can't afford to support me in my old age.
Okay, so I haven't worked full time since I left school. In fact in those five years I've only worked full time for about four or five months, all told, and part time for maybe two years more. BUT in the periods between employment I've hardly been scrounging (except off my parents, and that doesn't count). Don't you think it's actually pretty good of me to work full time at my writing, and not get paid? I haven't claimed a penny in unemployment. Last year I gave the government two hundred extra pounds in tax, and it was only after prolonged campaigning (which you can read all about in my archives if you've really nothing better to do) that I got it back.
So why are they telling me they're going to give me an allowance that's less than a person can live on? What did I ever do to them?
I'm in a really grumpy mood today. It's one of those days where nothing's really going right - from the Morris Men skiving off after three dances, to the sun turning into rain, to Yahoo and my phone between them screwing up my remote mail access, to the RWA and the erotica chapter going at loggerheads (I can't even be bothered to read the messages on the group any more, there's so much righteous indignation there that I can't even see if anything useful is happening) to Google ads counting all my clicks and giving me nothing for them, to this dear blog being inexplicable in its crappiness. I'm feeling shat upon, and ignored to boot.
Example? Bet you no one even reads this.
I'm having a Dougal moment. A Marvin episode. Bah humbug to you all.
Morris Men skiving off after three dances???? Hell, they don't make them like they used to.
ReplyDeleteI wouldn't even count on the 82 pounds in 37 years, Katazz. Which leaves you with the following options:
a) claim to be Sean Connery's love-child, and sell your story to the tabloids
b) have a wild affair with an elderly conservative politician, and sell your story to the tabloids
c) becoming a best-selling smut author (with options on selling your 'autobiography' through the tabloids)
d) marry an insanely rich tabloid-publishing heir
e) have lots of children, so they can look after you in your old age
f) get used to poverty
I seem to be working on f) myself. Although my Sean Connery look-alike DH does have a good superannuation plan, so I'll probably just have to stick with him. Or become a best-selling author. Or both.
I just wanted to let you know that I didn't read your post, and you are being ignored. See? This is me ignoring you.
ReplyDeleteDoesn't it make you feel better, being right?