Dope, not dole
A while back I had the misfortune to spend a few years living in the midlands. Before I went I made sure to buy myself a couple of nice big blocks of hash in case it took me a while to become acquainted with the local black market.

I went to the midlands for a reason: I had a grant to do some research at one of the big universities up there. Sadly my partner had no better reason to be there than her desire to be with me, and she didn't have a job to go to. There weren't many jobs in the midlands, as it turns out, and after a few weeks looking she had to sign on.

Unfortunately the rules for allowing people the dole are not at all clear when it comes to being the partner of someone on a postgraduate grant. Had I been an undergrad, fine, no problem. But because I wasn't no-one seemed to know whether we were allowed any unemployment benefit or not. The result was many miserable hours spent waiting in queues at the job centre to no particular effect.

Eventually they decided to harken to our plaintive cries and sent someone out to interview us in the flat where we lived. Before the hallowed representative of the welfare state arrived we cleaned and tidied like there was no tomorrow and by the time she knocked on the door the flat was as clean and shiny as a new pin.

So we made some tea and the three of us settled down around the dining table for a nice chat. And as we sat, my eyes meandered across the table to the centre, where there was a fruit bowl containing a heart-warming display of healthy food: some shiny apples, a couple of ripe bananas, zesty oranges and a fucking great lump of cannabis.

Momentarily speechless, I then panicked and glanced up at my other half. The look on her face told me she'd spotted it too and that she'd realised like me there was nothing we could do about it and that there was no way our visitor was going to spend much time at the table without spotting it as well. So we sat and chatted politely for an hour: me, her, the lady from the job center, and an a couple of ounces of dope.

Every second of that conversation was agony. At any minute I expected her to realise there was a huge stash in the middle of the table, jump to her feet and call the police. But she stayed silent on that subject, discussed our situation and eventually got up and left. Thank fuck for that we thought - what a nice lady.

But she wouldn't give us any dole money. Bitch!
(MattDP (Squiggle), Fri 17 Sep 2010, 14:12, 1 reply)

You poor, poor bastard.
The midlands?
(Set your faces to Stunned Bigly, Fri 17 Sep 2010, 14:37, closed)