The Mona Lisa (or La Joconde, La Gioconda).

Image via Wikipedia

The alarm clock is tuned to BBC Radio 4.  If I hear one more feature on benefit cuts, taxes, the Government, or even cricket, I think I may actually throw the radio out the window.  This is not the kind of stuff I want to wake up to in the morning.  Especially considering I live it.  I see the outcome of benefits and benefit cuts every time I look my bank balance.  I am on benefits.  They have their place.  I would like to be off them, though.  I am not going to comment on the actual statistics and numbers.  Other people have done that better than me.  I left my University Psychology course because of the stats.  I don’t like them.  I’ve never been one.

Every time I listen to a report that rattles off the statistics of people on benefits, I want to shout at the radio/screen, and I sometimes do.  That’s me, you bastard.  I am not a number .  And I want to work.  I’ve liked all the jobs I’ve had.  And I want another one.

I went to the jobcentre yesterday, and they asked for a number before they used my name.  I am not a number.

My name is Lorna.  I write things that aren’t numbers.  I am my parents daughter.  I’m a friend to many, and one man’s girlfriend.  One cat has claimed me as her human.  My favourite colours are purple and green.  I have an aversion to most vegetables, but I like spinach.  I’m not afraid of much, except bad stuff happening to the people I love.  And ferrets.  And vomiting.  Please don’t get me started on vomiting ferrets.  I love country music and subtitled movies.  I hate sirens.  I love to travel.  I’ve been fishing in Norway; I’ve watched German MTV in Prague.    I thought I was in the queue for the toilet in the Louvre, and ended up seeing the (very small) Mona Lisa.  I lit a candle in the Duomo in Florence.  I am not particularly religious, but I believe in my own benevolent angels.

I like looking at old photos, and I looked like Ugly Betty in my seventh grade school photo.  I’ve been doing that a lot lately, looking at old photos.  It’s a way to connect with the person that I am, in a time when others are concerned with my numbers, my income, my diagnosis.

Most people know that I am more than a number, client, customer, a file with a label on it.  For everyone else, there’s my voicemail.

I started this blog to carve out time for me.  Time between appointments and phone calls and home-visits with invasive questions.  My head has been so filled with so much official stuff; there is little room for me stuff.  This is that room.  Yes, I write about the wheels and my own access issues.  It is about the chair, but it’s also about the person sitting in it, and I have a lot to say.

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