I just read this story. My own run-in didn’t last as long as that one, thank goodness, but it did take over a month to get someone to listen to me and figure everything out.

Thanks to a company that I now hate, my unemployment benefits, which had been approved, were overturned. Despite many appeals, I eventually had to pay back the benefits. And eventually, they started garnishing my wages.

We were getting to what should have been the end of the garnishment. It was around the holidays, so I was giving them extra time, and I was pretty busy myself, so it took me a little while to notice, but despite enough money coming out, my balance was not changing.

By the time I finally got someone to listen to me and we went over everything, I ended up with almost a full paycheck’s worth of money coming back to me. Had I not noticed, I worry how long it would have gone on, and I also worry about this happening to others.

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Our youngest child was born three months early. We were given a sheet at the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) to fill out, and we were told it was to apply for SSI (Supplemental Security Income — government assistance) to help cover bills and such. We filled it out and sent it.

And we waited. My husband tried multiple times to call to check the status, but every time he did, they wouldn’t let him stay on hold. After about twenty minutes, the system would tell him to call back and would then hang up.

When we eventually got through, we were told they had our information.

And we waited some more.

Nine months after our son’s birth, I eagerly opened a letter from Social Security… that told us we now had approval to apply. Is that not what we had done? Apparently not.

We then filled out a much more demanding (and in some sections, unclear) application, and we had to physically take some papers to the office.

And we were told it would take a while.

It’s been over seven months since then. There’s still been no sign of anything. We’re getting by, but we would have appreciated the extra money months ago.

I am attending a work meeting.

Department Head: “We really do need to fix that reporting process. It feels like all my data is falling into a black hole.”

Another meeting attendee gasps.

Attendee: “You can’t say that! That’s racist!”

We all stare at him, not believing that he is actually serious. But he is.

Department Head: *Trying not to laugh* “Would you prefer I say it fell into an African American hole? Because that sounds a bit suspect.”

Attendee: “Now you’re just back-pedaling to hide your racism!”

Department Head: *Still trying not to laugh but ultimately failing* “But some of my best holes are black!”

I had to step in to get the meeting back on track. The attendee tried to go to Human Resources to complain about the department head. His complaint was not upheld.

Over twenty years ago, I worked in a small IT office which occupied part of the first floor of a terraced house. The ground floor was a printing and stationery shop, and the second floor was a residential flat. We shared the first floor with the constituency office of the local Member of Parliament (MP).

We had no issues with the constituency office, although occasionally we would be interrupted by distraught supplicants looking for the MP and ignoring all directions and signs on the doors.

However, on mornings when I arrived before anyone else had turned up for work, I would find a large pile of envelopes on the floor under the letter box. I would sort through these, putting the large numbers addressed to the MP to one side and taking the three or four addressed to my employers (usually circulars or trade magazines) upstairs. My boss was horrified.

Boss: “Do you know what might be in those MP’s letters you handled? There could be razor blades or dog excrement!”

Me: “Most of the MP’s correspondence has been forwarded from the House of Commons and will therefore already have been scanned. Likewise, if it has a stamp, the post office will have checked it. There are only ever one or two which are hand-delivered, and I’m careful with those.”

This did not make much impression, and I was banned henceforth from being helpful.

That was fine until one day when an IT periodical with an article of particular interest to my boss failed to turn up. He accused the MP’s staff of hijacking it.

MP’s Agent: “If you don’t sort the letters, we assume it’s all for us. If we find it isn’t, we would probably have thrown the envelopes away, so we don’t know who it’s meant for, and we recycle it.”

I left the firm shortly after that. I suspect that all these complaints and replies also went for recycling.

CONTENT WARNING: Thoughts Of Suicide (Happy ending!)
 

This story reminded me of some experiences during the first year of the global health crisis. 

I did a lot of volunteering via the NHS (National Health Service), mostly shopping and other errands for people whose doctors had told them to shelter at home. 

But sometimes I would do check-in-and-chat. It’s a simple concept. Those people who had been told to stay at home were offered the chance of getting a call from a stranger to see how they were doing. I only did a few of these because I would find myself crying quietly after the call. 

But the most harrowing and then heartwarming story was one I heard of through an online support group for volunteers. Early in the first lockdown, a volunteer rang an elderly woman to see how she was doing, and she was distraught. There was a cold snap with temperatures below freezing overnight, and her boiler had failed, so she and her home were literally freezing. She’d become so desperate that she was looking through her medicines trying to work out which combination would most quickly end her life!

The thing is, she had boiler cover; she was paying [Energy Company] hundreds of pounds a year so this would not happen, but they were refusing to come out for “health and safety” reasons, even though her life was in danger. The volunteer called them. There was no doubt they understood, but they would do nothing.

The volunteer came online to find out what to do. He lived too far away and had no car. We were all desperate to help. Luckily, another volunteer lived near her and knew a plumber. The woman’s boiler was fixed a few hours later, and the only payment the plumber took was a cup of tea (plenty of sugar!) and two biscuits.

The lady did not want to fuss, so unfortunately, no formal complaint was made. I’ve just checked, and they would charge me £600 a year for this “service”. I didn’t hear any reports that they stopped taking monthly payments during lockdowns.

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