JOBCENTRE WRAG-TIME a poem

I went to the local Jobcentre

With painkillers, stick and bag

I had to go, fearing sanctions

Cos I've gone and been put in the "WRAG."

It makes me feel poorly on buses

But with hypos I mustn't drive,

So I stumbled in all of a-tremble,

And barely a quarter alive.

It took me all my precious "spoons"

To balance and to breathe,

I had to watch the pavement

As it starts to shift and seethe.

My 80 year old mother came

To help me open doors

Which invariably seem to stick

Defying gravity's laws.

My appointment was half past eleven,

Though I hadn't slept night after night.

My legs felt as wobbly as rubber

I was sickened by motion and light.

But the Jobcentre seemed rather quiet

With everyone there in their place,

No loud noises were blorting to hurt me

Which was abso-bloomin-lutely ace.

A lass who was wearing a label

Which I guess spelled out her name

Started asking me what was my business

And the reason that I came?

I explained I'm in the “WRAG” group

And I had to meet the girl

Who's my “Personal Adviser”

Who I'll call, for rhyme's sake, “Shirl.”

She looked me up, she looked me down,

She showed me to a chair,

Where in pain I tried to balance

Near to others who were there.

Some were reading adverts,

While others filled in forms,

Some jiggled kids in pushchairs

While others stifled yawns.

But everyone seemed friendly,

Efficient, polite and calm,

And as I got my breath back

One young woman touched my arm.

She said my name and greeted me

And helped me cross the carpet,

Pulled out a chair to help me

Cos by now my “spoons” had scarpered!

She reassured me from the off

She wasn't there to press me,

ATOS had done what ATOS do,

Here no one would undress me

Or frown and say “M.E.? What's that?”

You look fit as a fiddle!”

She listened and she understood

(Not influenced by Rod Liddle!)

I didn't wear my dog-collar,

So I was a bit astounded,

She knew the kind of help I'd need,

Advice was wise and grounded.

She tapped on her computer screen

To calculate & compare,

If work from home might pay at all

What hours, what skills to share.

She knew from my work history

I wasn't one for shirking,

She knew that were I well enough

I'd much rather be working.

She totted up the hours

I could work or volunteer,

On top of what I manage now,

If better health were here.

She built on what my skills are

To make helpful suggestions,

She let me pace things as we talked

And answered all my questions

She learned about my brainfog

And saw it one-to-one,

She's the face among the faceless,

I was really glad I'd gone!

I asked if I had to see her

Every month from here on in,

She said it would not be needed,

(My knees must've met my chin!)

I could call her number any time

For any advice at all,

It should be another year or more

Till my next medical call.

She was honest about W.R.B.

And all the uncertain changes,

She well understood her clients' fears

And the future's scary dangers,

So clued up and supportive,

She went out of her way

To fetch me a pack to make a claim

If needed, for DLA.

Since then I've heard two other friends

At different JCPs,

Have also had this kind of help

In different degrees.

Although it took days to recover,

From this trip to the “bowels of hell”,

I consider myself very fortunate

I've a positive tale to tell.

Before you say, “yes but, no but,

ESA's just for a year.”

I must meet that bridge when I come to it,

I'm thankful for now and here.

For now, I was saved an unequal fight

To be put in the group for “support”,

Not terminal ill, not yet a corpse,

I guess I've been put where I ought.

I know the harsh rules of D.W.P.

Won't find me a miracle cure,

With their strict time-limitation,

But the future is seldom sure!

We can only live in the moment,

And fight on for those with no voice,

Play fair even when we've been diddled,

Or grow bitter and bolshy by choice.

Back at home I was soon reminded,

How true were the things we'd discussed,

How far I am from “fit for work”

The adrenalin soon repercussed.

I slept till the daylight was dying,

As body and brain disengages

With the payback from that short journey

I just couldn't function for ages.

But at least one Jobcentre employee,

Understands disability more,

Has more now of M.E. awareness,

It won't stop me fighting injustice,

With others whom ATOS have harmed,

But I went to the WRAG, and I learned some,

As with all things, forewarned is forearmed.

Angel in Disguise?

Not the best of days, health-wise, but who's counting?


Still very weak, feverish, sick, sore and with added palpitations since the massive hypoglycemic episode I reported  a few weeks ago, plus my immune system going  ape after the flu jab. Bad news everywhere, politicians carving up our lives, press gloomily gloating, crises and uncertainties in research have got the worldwide M.E. community punch-drunk this week.


Angels have the habit of slipping in when you're looking the other way, though, don't they? Had a visit, very rare and very welcome, from my Methodist superintendent minister, my colleague when I was still able to work full time. Since my collapse six years ago, I've been a junior supernumerary minister, an uncomfortable anomaly for those not yet retirement age, too ill to work as a full-time itinerant minister working 24/7, or to work reliably at all.
He had come with no agenda. Just a pastoral visit to a colleague as he is now beginning his time as head of the circuit ministerial team. I had no expectations but a chat with an old friend. He listened and learned about M.E. like very few do. We laughed together, as always. He was patient with my brain fog and spoke clearly and slowly enough for my addled M.E. brain to take in. Almost - some names and proper nouns still elude me!

Then he talked about the new more flexible working patterns and new emphases in ministry that the church is being challenged to embrace. Much has changed in the years I have been forced out of the calling I so love. He talked of how many missed my ministry.

He spoke of lakes and rivers. Deep still places and streams that flow faster between them, sharing the same water, functioning differently, yet as one. He gave me hope that, even so limited as my strength, energy and cognitive function is, there may in future be a place for me to offer more than the occasional service. 

He knows all my limitations. He knows I will never be fit to drive with my lack of hypo awareness and frequent blood glucose dips. He knows I can't do things to a deadline any more. He knows he may possibly lose me from the working sphere for days, weeks or months at a stretch. He knows work needs to be something I can do at my own pace and completed when I am well enough.

 He talked of things that could be done over the internet, using all my skills. Things that could happen from home, or within a very short distance in supportive surroundings. He talked of one to one jobs where I could sit or lie, not needing more than a whisper, just using the pastoral, people and teaching skills I was born with and trained for. 

 He helped me glimpse places my ministry could slot in again within new and established outreaches and communities. He saw me as I really am, who I need to be. Ministry isn't a job or a 9-5 profession. It's open ended and often all-consuming. It's a calling and a longing and your whole identity that can't be put on a shelf somewhere when your body gets in the way. With all these frustrations, limitations and agonies of M.E., he could still see where I could be me, with much to offer.


It won't be easy. It might not happen quickly. There are no guarantees. God never called me to being sure, only to being faithful and open. There are still many obstacles to overcome. Things to think through, pray through. People who also need to be brought into the circle of understanding so we can all support each other with our own unique strengths. This may be the beginning of a journey with precious few signposts or maps.

I can't tell you how good this feels. After so long in the nightmare wilderness, in the church's vision I glimpsed a possible model for how other jobs and businesses could try to make this support, adaptation and flexibility work for all those with severe life-limiting illnesses and very special challenges to tackle.

What I've gone through healthwise all my adult life, and even before that in my father's stroke at 45, places me in a uniquly blessed position to be part of the solution for others, or at least compassionate to hear what they are saying, or not able easily to express.

Only time will tell, but that my "company" is beginning  to even contemplate what it means to enable its broken children to ease into making their unique contribution again, while remaining less than wholly able, is a miracle almost too amazing and beautiful to take in.


Half way through his visit, my toilet cistern outlet exploded noisily, drowning our conversation, pouring a flood of water onto the tiles. It had been overflowing in drips for some weeks, but today it came to a head. And he fixed it! Right place, right time, or the whisper of a loving provision?

My colleague knows he can't "fix" me. But he is open to finding the round hole instead of the square one, into which this round peg can somehow, day by fluctuating day, gradually fit herself again.


Till then, my body is sick, my head is throbbing, but my heart and my spirit is singing!