There are no (decently printable) words to describe my reaction to the bedroom tax, thus I’m leaving it to those who can.
There is some clamour in the media for the “Minimum Wage” to be replaced by a higher “Living Wage” and for more lower-cost “Affordable Housing” to be built. I will leave detailed analysis of the concepts of those terms to a future blog-post where I will look at the issue of “poverty in a modern economy”; here I will concentrate on assessing whether the combined impact of a Living Wage + Affordable Housing would result in less need for “in-work” welfare benefits.
In compiling the table below I have used the following assumptions:
- A couple in their early thirties with 2 dependent minor offspring;
- Rent for a 3-bed semi-detached house with garden of £520 per calendar month;
- A Minimum Wage (M.W.) of £6.19 per hour, Living Wage (L.W.) of £7.45 per hour;
- Scenario 1: both work 37.5 hours per week (p.w.) on the M.W.;
- Scenario 2: both work 37.5 hours…
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Re-blogging because this very much echoes words I’ve spoken and written in the past – pretty much in its entirety – in reaction to others’ interpretation of my suicidal nature.
Well last night I ended up in a bad way, as expected, although even worse after an extra shit year and having to get through it alone for the first time in five years. I say ‘alone’ because I didn’t have anyone there with me, nor anyone to hand who knows me inside out and can handle my extreme meltdowns. Of course there were plenty of people on twitter offering their support, but this soon ended up making me feel even worse.
I just have so little tolerance for all the, what I consider to be, bullshit that people spout when someone’s struggling. To me it seems like people have become almost institutionalised by therapists and this ridiculous fashion to have to talk about everything. Suddenly everyone’s churning out words and phrases like ‘mindfulness’ and ‘self-soothe’ and ‘action plan’. Nobody seems to be able to think for themselves anymore, or…
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Socialisation at work again.
Funny, but a couple of things have cropped up today that are along the lines of something I’ve been planning a blog post on.
A week before Christmas my partner and I took our children to an underground Christmas grotto in some caves near where we live. It’s the first time I’ve been but there’s a display there every year. First you get your two minutes with Santa, then you wander from cavern to cavern, admiring the decorations. It’s all very nice, but it’s still really just for kids. Hence my partner and I devised a game to keep ourselves occupied: Christmas present shag bingo. All along the walls of the caves were fake presents with different names printed on them. The object of the game was to see how many names of former shags you could spot as you went along. By the end of the visit, my youngest had a cuddly turtle, my eldest a toy fighter jet and my partner a resounding shag bingo victory. Rather disappointingly, I’d only got one…
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