CENTS & NONSENSE:Scene: A social welfare office in Ballythisis- progress. Ten staffed customer-service hatches line the far wall. The first person in the queue, a very nervous, bald, middle-aged man, looks down at his wet, scuffed shoes.
Behind a shiny glass partition, two Government ministers sit back-to-back to ensure a full view of the cash hatches.
The Minister for Social Affairs, Tea and No Sympathy wears a paper heart on his lapel and a pert smile on his face. The Minister for Communion Money wears a worried frown, a tight belt and a white coat with long, bulging pockets. Both men count out currency and move it into large golden sacks marked "Exchequer". The clock strikes 9am.
Sympathy officer in Hatch 1: Next! Well, what have you got there?
First man: I'd like to apply for a looking-for-a-new-job payment. Officer: A what?
Man: An allowance.
SILENCE
Officer: You are not entitled to it.
Group of asylum seekers living in the toilets: (Singing) Not entitled, not entitled, not entitled . . .
Man: But I've worked . . .
Officer: No.
Man: I have the credits.
Officer: We only have Exchequer money and you're not entitled to it. It's ours.
Man: Why don't I qualify?
Officer: That's none of your business.
Man: Am I eligible for another payment?
Officer: Read this. (With help from a colleague she hands him a large, dusty book).
Man: These pages are full of gobbledegook written in tiny print. Where should I look?
Officer: I don't care.
Man: What do you want me to read?
Officer: The rule.
Man: What rule?
Officer: I don't know.
Man: Then why did you hand it to me?
Officer: You should know. It's up to citizens to inform themselves of their rights. We're not a nanny-state.
Man: Can I please see your supervisor?
(The supervisor walks over and stares blankly at the man.)
Man: (Quietly) I lost my job and I'm here to claim my I'm-trying- to-get-work payment. Can you please explain the rule mentioned by your officer?
Supervisor: (Loudly) This is an administration office not an information kiosk!
Asylum seekers: (Singing) No information, no information, no information . . .
Man: Can you please just take a look at my application and tell me what to do?
Supervisor: Hmmm. I see from your paper work that once, during the last two years, you took a holiday. That's very suspicious.
Man: My trip to Liverpool? I was visiting my dying aunt.
Supervisor: (Mouths "sponger" to the ministers. They nod.) You have not been living here long enough to claim anything. You need two years' residency and must speak English.
Man: I'm a Dub! Before I was laid off, I paid my taxes just like everyone else. I went on two holidays in the last 10 years.
Supervisor: Two? On your way.
Man: I want a written explanation for why I am being turned down.
Supervisor: Sure. Here.
Man: This is a blank piece of paper.
Supervisor: Is it? Next!
(A woman in her late 20s approaches the hatch.)
Woman: Hello. Here is my case number. I have two disabled children and I am here to pick up my please-gimme-a-break grant.
Supervisor: We are not a cash machine.
Woman: Sorry?
Supervisor: This is not an ATM.
Woman: Yes, I know. I'm just here to pick up my grant. I won my appeal after two years.
Supervisor: No.
Woman: Here is the letter.
Supervisor: It is wrong. We have no money for you.
Woman: Look, my kids need 24-hour care and I have not had a break since they were born five years ago. My marriage has broken up and I don't have any family nearby.
Supervisor: Move home.
Woman: (Sighs) Please can I just have my cheque?
Supervisor: Let's look at your file. (He pulls out a white folder with dirty boot prints all over it. Fast-food wrappers fall out.) Here's your family photo. These kids look fine to me. What are you moaning about? Some people can't even have children. Next!
(An older man, using a walker, shuffles up to the hatch.)
Officer: (Taps watch and rolls eyes.) It took you ages. Why are you here?
Man: For my can't-work- because-I'm-hurt allowance.
Officer: I told you yesterday that you're not young enough. You have to be over 16 and under 66.
Man: Here is my birth certificate, passport and driver's licence. They all say I am 55.
Officer: Sorry but we can't trust the paperwork from your country. I mean, you were born at home instead of in a hospital. How do I know this isn't your younger brother? You people all look alike.
Man: I told you already. I was born in America to Irish parents. We came back when I was three years old. I left Dublin to work in the States 10 years ago, came back two years ago and was hit by a joyrider outside Merrion Square and now I can't work.
Officer: Yes, exactly. You are a sponging foreigner. Next!
Margaret E. Ward is a journalist specialising in personal finance and consumer issues. She is also a director of Clear Ink, the Clear English Specialists. cents@clearink.ie
