More than just a number.

I'm sat on the big, brown leather sofa that hugs you.  The wind is whistling through the leafless branches of the trees outside my window, the birds are singing beautiful songs and the sun is shining through a strip of blue, breaking through the grey sky like a promise of things to come.

This weekend, I met up with some friends for a night out.  Some were friends I already knew, others were friends I only knew from speaking to on Twitter.  It had been a harsh few weeks so I was looking forward to this weekend.  My best friend had once again put his life at serious risk to rescue a suicidal female from what would be certain death.  It made me angry that I could have lost him but proud at the same time because he puts himself in situations whereby normal people would merely stand and watch, or run in the opposite direction.  In the news had been reports of more Police Officers who had died - both on duty and off.  It made me think about how those that love them must have felt.  Were they angry yet proud too?  I don't want to think of how life would be without my best friend in it, he is my rock, so my heart went out to their friends and families.

The train journey to the place we were staying was under an hour, and after walking aimlessly around Manchester for nearly an hour trying to find the bus to get there, I gave up and got a taxi.  As I was walking up the hill towards the accommodation block, I saw a small "garden" with an obelisk in the centre.  I had no idea what it was but decided I'd go and have a look once I had put my case in my room.

As I got to the garden, I could see four small blue signs around the walled centre.  As I got closer I could read the words on them - peace, compassion, protection and courage.  There were two small bunches of flowers on the outside circle, and as I got nearer, I could see two photographs - one next to each bunch of flowers.  The photographs were of PC Fiona Bone and PC Nicola Hughes.  I walked into the centre square and was greeted with a number of small silver nameplates around the wall upon which the obelisk sits.  Each plaque represents a member of GMP who lost their life in the course of their job.  On top of the centre circle was an order of service for one such Officer, along with more flowers - he was 32 and recently died on duty in another Force area, but had served with GMP for four years.  One of the cards on the flowers was "For Dad".  

I sat on the cold and damp stone seat and looked at the names, quietly crying.  The only other sounds were those of the birds in the trees.  The names on the wall directly in front of me were those of Fiona & Nicola.  Even now, as I sit typing these words, I have tears in my eyes.  On the day after the funeral of Paul McKeever and the day of his Memorial Service at Southwark Cathedral, and at the end of a week which saw two other Police Officers killed, I sat and thought about all of them.  I sat and thought about my friends who are Police Officers, and all the other Police Officers that I don't know.  I'm not a religious person in the normal sense of the word, but as I sat with tears rolling down my cheeks, I hoped that the families and friends of those who have lost their lives could find peace and remember how proud their loved ones made them.  

The Police get a very bad press sometimes, but if just one person sees a news report of an Officer killed on duty and remembers that they are more than the uniform they wear, more than just a collar number, then maybe, just maybe, we can all find that peace, compassion, protection and courage within ourselves and make this world a better place.  Rose tinted view I know, but what is life without hope?

Tears of joy and the kindness of strangers.

I'm sat on the fawn sofa, the olive green lamp is throwing a subtle light along the back wall of the lounge and through the gaps in the mental cactus.  The dog is asleep in her bed, dreaming of running in the park by the looks of it.  The rain is bouncing rhythmically on the window panes and I can hear the wind blowing through the trees.  It's a strangely comforting and beautiful sound.

Eight weeks ago, I was rushed into hospital with severe abdominal pains and vomiting.  I have quite a high pain threshold and already take a pretty decent dose of morphine each day, so for the pain to break through to the point where I was in tears and rather scared, it must have been bad.

I live a stones throw from a major hospital, but I was in no fit state to walk over so I did the only thing I could think of and called my Mum (yes, I'm 42 now but I don't think you ever grow out of wanting your Mum or Dad when you are scared or upset).  I was reluctant to call for an ambulance as I'd heard them all morning and knew they were insanely busy.  As I was waiting for my Mum, I received a phone call from the delivery men who were delivering my bedroom furniture (I've recently moved home).  I don't know what must have gone through his head when he heard my voice.  They arrived to find me semi collapsed at the front door and crying.  They offered to call an ambulance but I told them that my Mum was on her way.  Within two minutes she appeared.  They asked her if she needed any help whilst we waited for the ambulance, and looked somewhat relieved when she said we'd be fine.

The 999 controller asked my Mum if there was any way she could get me over to the hospital as I live so close, but she explained the state I was in and the fact I am disabled so there was no way she could have got me to the car.  She said she would send someone as soon as possible, but if it got any worse to call back.  Approximately 20 minutes later, it had got worse so we called again.  The lady asked to speak to me so that she could assess how soon I'd need an ambulance.  By this time, I was at the end of my tether and just wanted someone to help, but I know it's not her fault that the system is pushed to its limits so I remained polite.

The ambulance crew eventually arrived.  Two incredibly handsome Angels in Green appeared with a bag and cylinder of entonox, took a brief synopsis of what had happened and took me to the ambulance.  With the aid of the entonox and some very filthy conversation, the pain was easing.  After a 5-10 minute wait in the corridor, we were shown to a cubicle and off they went.  A couple of hours of being poked, prodded, stabbed with needles, drained of blood and given a dose of IV morphine, I was transferred to a ward.  As there were no beds available on the surgical unit, I became a "sleep out".  The staff on the non surgical ward were fabulous!  The surgeon came to see me and told me that I needed an operation and they'd fit me in as soon as possible.  Five days later, I was chatting with the Gas Man, asking for some Pimms with my Midazolam and having a gastroscopy.  I can remember looking at the screen thinking "that doesn't look right at all".  The gentleman doing the scope said he didn't like the look of some bits so would take some extra biopsies.  I don't remember much more after that until I woke up on the ward.

The surgeon came back to see me the next morning and said they would keep me in for a few more days, but he would see me in 3 weeks time for the results.

Three weeks turned into five, so I called the hospital to find out what the delay was.  Cut a long story short, I'd got "lost in the system".  I was told that there was a clinic appointment free today and I'd be sent a letter - I've still not had the letter, but there is a copy in my notes.

So, 8 weeks later, after no more than 3 hours sleep, I sat in the waiting room with my Mum.  We were called into the surgeons office and although I was calm and composed on the outside, inside I was a hysterical mess.  Swan Syndrome I call it.  He asked how things had been, any problems etc so I told him I could eat very little apart from bland stuff such as boiled rice, plain pasta, boiled chicken or fish and that I was losing weight at a rate of knots.  He looked a bit pensive and then started telling me what he planned to do next.  Inside I was screaming "never mind that, just give me the bloody biopsy results".  I couldn't wait any longer so i just blurted it out.  He smiled at me and said "they were clear of anything nasty".

Eight weeks of sleepless nights, telling those close to me I'm fine, putting on a brave face, pain, fear, apprehension, putting off plans that I had made, not wanting anyone to get close to me (including a very nice man whom I've kept at arms length) manifested itself in tears that, I hate to admit, still haven't really stopped. 

What made them worse was the number of people that sent lovely messages.  Some of them were from people I know, some from people I "know" from twitter and a lot from people I don't know.  I find myself overwhelmed with the kindness of strangers.  In a world where there is so much hostility, hate and unfriendliness, there is a beacon of light, love and hope.  I wish I could bottle what these people have given me and made me feel this evening.  I'd give it out free to every human being on the planet!

So to those who have sent me these messages, I thank you from the bottom of my heart!  Thank you doesn't seem enough, but it's all I can say.

A good apple a day......

I'm sat on the big brown leather sofa.  The sky outside is grey, with the odd glimpse of blue and cotton wool clouds.  I can't hear the waves because there's music playing on low (currently In the end by Linkin Park).  The dog is asleep in her bed.  To my left is a cup of tea in my "keep calm and carry on" mug, sat upon a coaster from my local Police, and my mobile.  To my right is a pile of paperwork, a bottle of oramorph, my passport, a small wad of foreign currency, an ashtray, my fags & lighter, a copy of PACE and a notepad with a list of criminal cases that I need to finish going through for a friend.

It's been a strange couple of weeks, some of it good and some not so good.  Between helping some friends through their Sgt's exams, helping some friends through some difficult times in their lives, the anniversary of a good friends' death & trying to get help for the family of an ex Soldier who lost his final battle, I've been trying to deal with my own problems.  Sounds strange, but I'm glad that I had other things to deal with.  I'm great when it comes to helping others and giving advice, but when it comes to my own problems I'd rather ignore them!

There are times, however, when I've not been able to ignore my problems.  I'm lucky in knowing that I have 4 really good friends who are there for me should I need them.  I'd be lost without them.  The past 7 - 10 days, I've discovered that I have another set of friends that I'd be lost without - my Twitter friends.  

There's a handful of them that I think the world of, yet I'd not know some of them if I fell over them in the street.  They might not recognise me either, but if I needed them I know they'd come running to help.  They are my Police friends.  Some of them are funny, some strange (in a good way) and others just downright insane (once again, in a good way)!  Yet one thing applies to all of them - they are wonderful human beings.

Last night, I joined in with them in a "tweetathon" to voice opinions on the Winsor Review and to attempt to bring the impact it will have, not only to the Police, but members of the general public, to the attention of Twitter and the media.  It was a fabulous thing to have been involved in, even though I'm only a civvy.  So why do I support the Police so vehemently?  I'll give you an insight.

I've got a lot of friends who are Police Officers, but I'm biased towards them because they are my friends.  They are not the ones I want to focus on.  The ones I want to focus on are the ones I don't know.  The ones that have helped me over the years when I needed them.

The Officer who showed compassion and told me off when I wanted to let rip on the thugs that beat my baby Brother up because he was "on their turf", the same Officer who found those responsible for his attack. 

The Officer who treated me with care, compassion and gave me a cup of tea and a hug when my ex beat me to within an inch of my life.  The same Officer that stayed with me at the hospital, took my statement at my own pace, made sure I got home safe and checked up on me at regular intervals.  

The Officers who took my statement when a neighbour beat his girlfriend up and injured his baby, whilst I sat and sobbed as I went over the horrible sound of a baby screaming in agony, unable to do anything to help.  

The Officers who dealt with me when I was sexually assaulted, went through the CCTV footage, gave me tissues as I sobbed giving my statement, put their hand on mine to reassure me I was doing well, searched for the male who did it, found him and took me through the process (despite me knowing the process).  

The Officers who dealt with me after a gang came through my living room window, armed with machetes, baseball bats and a samurai sword because they thought the house was the house of someone they had a gripe with, and not 2 flats.  The same Officers who made sure I had somewhere else to stay, made sure that my property was secure, made sure I was uninjured physically, kept me up to date with the case and helped me to get somewhere else to live as soon as possible so as to avoid any recriminations for me testifying against those responsible.

The Police Officer who dealt with me when I was injured in a car crash, who came to the hospital to check on me, laughed with me (or was it at me) because I was high as a kite on morphine and entonox, and has subsequently called to make sure I'm back to "normal".

These are the Officers that I owe a debt of grattitude to, along with all the other Police Officers that I haven't met.  The Police Officers who work long shifts, get assaulted, spat at, called a whole range of horrible names, deal with the dregs of society when others run in the other direction, who can't do right for doing wrong, who are hated because of the uniform they wear and the job they do - all so that I can sleep soundly in my bed and feel safe when I go out.

I know that not all Police Officers are good people (I'm not that naive), but the media only ever focus on the "bad apples", despite the fact that they are a very small minority!  I hope that by raking up some painful memories, I can help to show that the majority are amazing individuals who deserve our respect - Gods know they've earned it!!

The frailty of human life.

I'm sat on the big brown sofa with a cup of tea in the "keep calm and carry on" mug.  The small green lamp is casting big leafy shadows on the ceiling through the bamboo plant and the REME cap badge is gleaming with the light behind it.  The dog is sleeping soundly in her bed, and the only sounds are those of the laptop fan gently whirring and the tap tap of my fingers on the keyboard.

It's been a while since I last posted, mainly because I've not really had anything of note to share.  The past few days events have generated a whole gamut of emotions, to the point I have to get them off my chest so to speak.

It started with some local crimes being discussed on a Forum that, as usual, ended up being the fault of the Police.  I'm not a Police Officer, none of my family are either, but a lot of my friends are.  Growing up, my parents always instilled a respect for the Police in us.  I still carry that with me.  They do a job that the majority of people couldn't do, despite the fact that a lot seem to think they could do better.  There were the usual cries of "why aren't they out catching proper criminals instead of the motorist, the easy target" along with people moaning that they always seem to see the Police driving fast "must be the doughnut run".  It's surely not because they're actually responding to an emergency call!  Then you have the ones that say "well I called the Police and they didn't come to my house for X hours/days" or "they gave me a crime reference number and I've heard nothing from them since".

It's not very often I bite to these comments (it's fighting a losing battle and I would end up being rather nasty), but this particular day I was tired.  I was tired because I'd spent the previous night talking with a friend who is a Police Officer about a particularly nasty job he'd had.  There was no debrief and Pastoral Care is virtually non existent, so he comes to me.  He eventually fell asleep at 0400, after practically crying himself to sleep.  To look at him, you'd think he was the missing link  - he's a big brute of a man (6' 4" and just as wide), but underneath he's a sensitive soul.  I'm one of the few that know this side of him.  So I bit to the comments.  I had to close the site down in the end as I was getting more and more annoyed with the stupid remarks.  

I have quite strong views when it comes to the Emergency Services and our Armed Forces.  I'd like to see those that assault members of the Emergency Services or make hoax calls put on a list whereby should they need genuine help, they don't get it!  This won't happen though, because no matter what people say, do or think about them, they don't care!  All they care about is helping you in your moment of need.  But who helps them?

I know there are many members of our Emergency Services that have been injured in the line of duty, but last night, PC David Rathband was found dead.  I don't need to tell you who he was or what happened to him.  I won't disgrace his name by mentioning the name of the individual that caused his injuries.  His death goes to show that members of the Police are actually human!  They are just like you and I.  Their uniforms are merely clothes.  They are not some sort of "magic cloak" that stops them from being affected by what they see and deal with day after day.  I know that there are specialist centres that can be used to treat those injured in the line of duty, but surely these need to be extended or "welfare departments" reinstated within the Police service.  This will, in my opinion, be needed more as Police numbers are cut and those that are left serving have to deal with even more each shift.  Until this is done, I, and many like me, will continue to help and support my friends in the Emergency Services.

If I could wish for anything good to come from the loss of his life, it would be that those in power would recognise that it's not only members of the Armed Forces who suffer with PTSD and offer more Pastoral Care to those that look after us, 24 hours a day, 365 days of the year.  My wish with regards to the public would be that they remember that each Officer IS a person.  Instead of being quick to slate or attack them, be quick to support them.  You never know when you might need them.

Rest in peace and thank you PC Rathband.  May you now find the peace that evaded you in life.      

From beyond the grave.....

I'm sat on the big brown leather sofa, the only sounds are that of the dog dreaming and the heating (which is set to "surface of the sun") kicking in.  The sky is grey and I can hear the wind howling.

Today is Armistice Day.  The past 3 Remembrance Days have been quite hard for me as I've lost a few friends. This week has to have been one of the strangest I've had for a long while.

My Dad was my world.  I was a "Daddy's Girl" without doubt.  In 1987, I got up early as I was planning on going to Goodison Park for the match.  As I walked into the living room, I saw my Dad sat in his chair.  I thought he was asleep and tried to rouse him to see if he wanted a cup of tea.  He was ice cold and didn't wake up.  Most of the next few weeks, including his funeral, is missing from my memory.  I have snippets of memories, but I guess I've just stored it away as it is too painful to deal with, even now!

Last week, my Mum and I went to "see" my Dad in the cemetery.  For some strange reason, we took a different route out of the cemetery.  We tried to find her Mums grave to no avail, so we got back in the car and carried on round the only way we could.  On the left was a large sandstone headstone with names carved into it.  One name jumped out at me - it was my maiden name, including my initial!

We got out of the car and I ran my finger over the name just to double check as you couldn't actually read it properly due to it being so weathered.  It turned out to be a relative who served on HMS Bullfinch, and died at the age of 32. I'm still researching it but it's turning up all kinds!

Now comes the even stranger bit.   I spoke to my Dad at his grave and told him that I miss him every day and would give anything just to be able to see him again.  This morning, as I was getting ready to head to the War Memorial for the 2 minutes silence, I was watching the Remembrance Week programme on BBC1.  I was watching Albert Pond talking about El Alamein and Montgomery.   I knew that my Dad had served there with him, but we know very little as he didn't talk about it much.  We have a couple of pictures but that's it.

Suddenly, there was a picture on the tv screen of 6 Soldiers, 3 standing by and 3 sitting on a tank.  One of those men is my Dad!  I'm crying now as I type this.  I've just called the BBC to see if I can get a copy of the photograph.  They gave me an adress to write to to see if they can give me a copy.  A chance comment by a friend suggested that I try the Imperial War Museum, as she thought that they supply the BBC with pictures.  I called them and spoke to a lovely lady called Rita.  She is going to see if it's one of theirs.  I can't thank her enough!  I currently have the frame paused on the iPlayer and still can't believe he's looking at me. 

I guess he must have heard me ask to see him once more.

There are no rainbows.......

I'm sat on the big brown sofa with a cup of tea in the cat & fish cup.  The sun is streaming through the window, casting rainbows all over the walls as it passes through the crystals hanging from the curtain pole.  The dog is sunbathing/sleeping in her bed and the only audible sounds are the gulls and the roar of the ferry as it passes by. 

That's a lie actually.  That was the state of play when I started writing this post first thing this morning.  It's now dark outside, the cream curtains are drawn and there are no rainbows on the walls anymore.  The only sound apart from my fingers on the keyboard is the occasional sniff as the tears take over my normally strong self.  I've had a few hours where I've had a word with myself, but then a blog post by a friend set me off again.  The floodgates have been well and truly opened by a text message, from someone I care a lot for, being "nice" to me.  These were the catalyst for this outpouring of salty nastiness.  

The original reason for this "wibble" was a letter I received this morning telling me that because I have somewhat adapted to my situation and can walk with the aid of morphine, the brace & crutches, I'm not entitled to any extra benefits.  The phrase used was "using suitable aids, although your walking is limited, you are not unable or virtually unable to walk".  Then came the rest of the reasons:

"because, at your own speed, you can safely manage your toilet needs, use a bath OR shower, get up and down stairs.........using suitable aids and don't need help from someone for about an hour a day....you are not at risk of falling and can take reasonable precautions to prevent any dangers...substantial danger, to you or to others.....you are not entitled to any rate of care"

Now, I have a raised toilet seat because otherwise, my kneecap tends to pop out of place or the knee will lock.  To have a shower, I have a seat to sit on.  This replaced me going into the shower with the crutches!  Getting up and down stairs is generally done on my arse as, as previously stated, I've already fallen down the stairs and damaged my shoulder once and I don't want to risk harming myself any further.  I don't have any help during the day because I'm too proud, not because I don't need it.  As for the falling - I think the chunks of flesh that are missing from my head and the shoulder injury will put pay to that statement.  What is "substantial damage" anyway?  If not at risk of falls, I would not have been assessed and granted a system that recognises if I have fallen and calls either a nominated person or a local warden if I speak to them on the phone but can't get up unaided or, if I don't respond at all in a certain time frame, 999.  

Now I can appeal this decision apparently - as long as none of the changes that have happened, happened after I got the letter today.  If that had been the case, I'd have to go through the whole process again from scratch!  It's taken from 14th June for them to get to this point!  Thankfully, they have based their decision on information dated 13/09/2011.  Since then, I have had my test results back and as covered in a previous blog post, I've signed a consent form for more surgery in the next week or 2 and a further major surgery after that.  I'm hoping that this will make them see that I do need help.  I've done myself no favours really by adapting and being proud.  The problem now is that I can see my strength and determination waning.  I've cried for hours today and that isn't like me.  I'm a strong and positive person, but the prospect of losing my leg is pushing me to the limit.  Not because I think it will be the end of the world, because it won't be, but more because I'm scared of having to cope on my own.  If I'm struggling now, what the hell am I going to do when I come out of hospital to a 2nd floor flat, 28 stairs and doors that cannot accommodate a wheelchair?

I've paid into the system for over 20 years, I'm not asking for anything I don't need.  All I'm asking for is a little bit of help until I get back to my job and for someone to bring the rainbows back... 

Am I benefit scrounging scum**?

I'm sat on the big brown leather sofa, my pint cup of tea to my left and the dog asleep in her bed to my right.  The window is open and the air is heavy with birdsong - it's a truly beautiful sound.  There is a strange tap tap tapping noise, which by straining, I can see is being caused by a blackbird trying to smash a snail shell on the bay window roof below.  There is a faint sound of a passenger plane overhead and the cries of gulls drifting in from the sea.  It's not dark, but not quite light.  It's that sort of inbetween haze.  And that pretty much sums it up.

When I first had my accident, I didn't bother claiming any benefits as I had a very well paid job but after a couple of weeks, I was told that it was best I stayed off for Health & Safety reasons.  There was 2 flights of stairs up to my desk, 1 to the nearest toilet and 3 down if I wanted a drink, my lunch or a smoke (I don't smoke anymore thankfully).  I was immobilised from ankle to hip and on crutches, so was deemed a bit of a liability.  Unfortunately, there was no sick pay as it was only a small Firm so I had to go through the rigmarole of applying for Sick Pay.  Little did I know that 6 weeks later, I'd be made redundant.  Thankfully, I got my normal wage as final payment.  It was a bitter blow, but I was not the only one.  Approximately 200 were made redundant that week.  I spent my redundancy wisely and paid off debts that had built up due to being on a greatly reduced income, filled the freezer and cupboards and made sure that the bills were all up to date.  It didn't leave much, but  I had a holiday booked and thought sod it, I'm still going to enjoy it.  And I did! 

Applying for benefits was a killer.  I'm a proud bird, some would say stubborn (they're right but don't tell them I said so) and to ask for help does not come easy.  Since then, my circumstances have got worse, and I find myself in rather unpleasant territory.  I've admitted that I need help and that I can't cope with the way things are.  Little did I realise just how hard it would be!  Now for those that think life on benefits is easy and you get everything paid for, you're wrong.  Out of my benefit, I still have to pay £25 towards my rent, £8 towards my Council Tax and the usual bills, as well as find the money to get to physio and hospital appointments.  It doesn't sound like a lot, but when your income is only a small amount it's a bloody big dent!  I still don't understand how those who have never worked and are on benefits manage to go out and get drunk & smoke or do drugs (Yes I know not all do before someone picks up on it).  I guess some just know how to screw the system.

It has taken the best part of 16 months to get decent analgesia so that I can be relatively pain free and 6 weeks to get an Occupational Therapy Assessment so that I can finally have a shower safely (I'll come back to this in a moment), sit on the toilet without my kneecap popping out and wash a dish or 2 without worrying about falling over.  I've applied for DLA (Disability Living Allowance), and more recently been made to apply for ESA (I can't remember what it stands for, but it's essentially the same form as for the DLA - this is a blog post on its own so I'll come back to this at a later date, suffice to say, Google is your friend).  I'm still waiting for a decision on DLA.  They have to get a report from my Surgeon and GP, which I don't mind as I have nothing to hide.  

Now, as already stated, things have got worse and so I found myself requiring more help.  Having been told that it was a long wait for an OT Assessment, I was advised to "use baby wipes" to wash myself as it was unsafe to use the shower (I was taking the crutches in with me for stability which wasn't the best of ideas) or stand to have a strip wash, and had I got into the bath I'd have either needed Trumpton or Prince William and his colleagues from RAF Valley to winch me out.  Housework had become all but impossible - the simple act of hoovering generally results in me falling over as I can't hold the hoover and the crutches, so something has to give...it's usually my knee.  Doing the dishes and cooking a meal is the same.  Because of this, I asked for a "Home Help" (not sure what it's called these days, I'm sure it's some daft acronym).  The problem is, because I have used my nouse and adapted to a small extent, I appear to have shot myself in the foot.  

When I make a meal, I put it in a tupperware dish and poke it into the living room with the crutches as this saves me from either dropping the plate/bowl and burning myself or ending up face first in it.  The same with a cup of tea or coffee - I put it in a flask and roll it into the living room.  To collect my post, put the bin bag out, let the dog out, go to the hospital etc, I go down the 28 stairs on my arrse (I've already fell down them and ended up rugby tackling the wall, resulting in a damaged shoulder.  Martin Johnson would have been impressed had I been in a scrum though).  I have a wheelchair for when things are extremely bad, but it's outside my front door - 2 flights of stairs up!  Thankfully, they are aware of the need for more surgery, and know that my needs will increase in the next few weeks, but I will still have to wait a few days for everything to be put into place.  I wait with bated breath for their decision.

I intend for this to be a temporary blip in my life.  No matter what the outcome surgically, I intend to be back at work as soon as possible, paying all the money back in that I've taken out so far.  I'd like to think that I'll get the help I need, but I won't hold my breath.  Maybe in the meantime I should develop a drink or drug problem (well I'm already on morphine so surely it's just a step up...scrap that, I have more self respect), I'd get much more money and help then!  I'll just have to continue to adapt and overcome. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't tar all that are on benefits with the same brush.  Some of us have worked a day in our lives (over 20 years in my case) and will continue to do so, with or without the help that is supposed to be in place for such circumstances.

**Apologies to K for using her blog name in my post title - it was the only thing that seemed to fit.