Bits and pieces

Wow. IND have written to confirm the receipt of my application which is, I suppose a rock solid first step. Next step will be to accept my application and acceptance is contingent upon payment going through and upon my using the correct form and supplying all the required information.

I'm holding my breath. The letter ends with the following statement: "An applicant who has permission to be in the UK when an application is made is legally entitled to remain here on the same conditions previously granted until the application has been decided." I guess that means I can stay here while my application now wends its way through the system. To me that constitutes permission to breathe.

In the mean time I've been offered more hours at work because the woman who was the supervisor and on maternity leave has resigned. She's working as a barmaid at one of the local pubs, cash in hand, and has calculated that she'll be better off with that arrangement than coming back to us. I know she's living in social housing and I have to assume that if she's getting cash in hand she's also getting various other tax-payer funded subsidies not to come back to work full time.

The extra hours will help financially, though there are issues I'm going to have to find a way of addressing such as making sure that the Fat Bastard feeds B properly and makes sure she does her homework and bathes and brushes her teeth and all that boring parenting crap he's been able to remain oblivious to. Feeding her properly means something more than filling her up; any fool could do that. Homework doesn't mean shouting at her to do it, but sitting beside her and helping her through the harder stuff as necessary and generally being firm and supportive.

Washing means washing. The problem is that his poor personal hygiene suggests someone who doesn't understand that basic fact. Brushing her teeth requires supervision; making sure that she does something more than apply paste to brush and waft brush in vicinity of teeth. Oral/dental hygiene is another of his not-so-strong suits. What few teeth he has left are rotten, and he only visits the dentist when one of them falls out, chips or otherwise gives rise to an infection that causes his face to blow up to more grotesque than usual proportions.

In the meantime war is about to be resumed on the home front. Four weeks ago after his stunning act of bastardry involving sending my (our) daughter away for a week when I'd said no, I made his continued residence here conditional upon his better behaviour on the domestic front.

I've just been up to his room, the door to which he's left open. From the doorway I could see and incense burner above which was the remains of a tea-light. The fucking idiot is burning candles in his pig sty bedroom and that must be either when he's sprawled on his bed in a stupor or late at night after he's come in from a heavy drinking session. Either way that would be suicidal behaviour if he lived alone but as he doesn't it could be murderous.

Finding that, nestled among the glasses that were there before we went away on holiday, is too much. We're back to being unable to see the carpet for the clothes and books and other forms of crap and he's going to have to shift his fat arse or I'll shift his filthy crap to the charity shop myself once B is back at school and I have time to walk back and forth.

And time I will have.

Today I went down to the shop for my regular weekly shift. I found the place in a shocking state, the shop floor crammed with stuff of every description and too much of it. Having picked my way through it with the overnight donations and some stuff that came in as I arrived I found that the back was worse. The electricals are still being hoarded though we can't sell them. A lot were left lying about in the work area rather than stowed in the office. The latter is still hoarding electricals but at least they're not in everyone's (ie, my) way while working.

From what I could see, and my view was obscured by the excessive amounts of stuff crammed in, we've reverted to dumping stuff on the floor in lieu of space on the rails, shelves and other display furniture. Never mind how difficult that makes accessing the shop for the able bodied let alone those who are less than perfectly mobile (dangerous).

The place clearly hadn't been vacuumed in days. The window displays were tawdry, very little had been priced up (illegal).

I found records piled before the heating outlet and hauled them out the back as well as tidied up the pictures.

At that point one of the women who works Fridays with me(and is also a committee member) turned up and a bloke who's been co-opted into helping but hasn't formally been signed up (or insured, also illegal) also came knocking and clearly expected to be let in. It was the final straw.

I hate being driven out but as the committee member in charge of the shop on Friday's I'm responsible for its presentation, as well as all the legal (trading standard, health & safety, staff) issues. Almost a year ago I asked the chief executive, who was insistent that the charity would be the defendant in any case where an agency was to take action against 'us', to confirm this vague 'opinion' in writing. No such document has been forthcoming. Her 'hands off' management style has left the old couple who got things off the ground to run things as they see fit and that means ignoring the law, disregarding even the most reasonable concerns for health and safety and generally allowing things to 'drift'.

I handed over my keys and walked out. Later I phoned the woman I'd left the keys with to explain that while I'd left her in the lurch I'd had more than I could bear with the despicable letter written to me a fortnight ago that dragged B into the fight and was otherwise full of lies and distortions and motivated by malice, the squalor (God knows I've got enough of that at home), the peddling of gossip (mostly by her) that fuels all the backstabbing.

I have my Fridays back, at least until the employer who actually pays me decides to fill that particular void with paid work.

I have my Fridays back to harass the Fat Bastard into sorting out the pigsty, clearing the garden of his burgeoning collection of supermarket trolleys and other crap, getting up into the loft and sorting that out.

I've already this morning had to tidy up the remnants of yesterday; the camping trip's detritus is still all over the house downstairs. To be fair the tents do need to go up to be dried out and cleaned up before they're stored. On the other hand I found a plastic bag with his washing tucked away underneath a bookcase that otherwise might have lay there festering for weeks or months for all he might care.

Yesterday I patiently explained to him that he doesn't need to wait for dry weather before getting the tents up to clean and dry. They're small enough to put up inside provided newspaper is put down first. So I'm off to do that or we'll be forking out for new tents.