If Your Name’s Not Down

19.02.15 (Day 423)

07.42

What’s the story, morning glory? Something I ask myself every morning. Then the story is told as the day progresses. There could be plenty to tell after today as it’s a rather busy one.

I’ve been up for an hour already and am writing this while I wake up with the aid of breakfast: Marmite on burnt toast, cappuccino and three cigarettes. Once I’ve got that lot inside me and I’ve jotted my thoughts down here, I’m good to go.

The first thing to do today is try to write some more of the new book whilst avoiding the temptation to play online poker. I hit a snag with the story yesterday, so I took time out to play a few hands of cards. A few became many and the session lasted for the remainder of the working day. I’m up though and my bankroll is still looking good.

After poker I went to the pub, as I will again today. I shall play some pool and talk business, as I did yesterday. Myself and another customer have volunteered our services as chefs to re-open the pub kitchen so that they can start to serve food. The kitchen has been closed for as long as anyone can remember and it’s a wasted resource. Food is where the margins are in the pub business and this particular pub needs more custom. I’m qualified, I have a business brain and the landlord is on board. Simple English pub fayre at first, with maybe the odd theme night and then we shall see. To be discussed further today over a few games of pool. The pub pool team played last night and although we lost the match, I won my singles game.

I’m meeting my kid sister, The Courts in the pub, probably my fold-up daughter and possibly one or two others. That said, it has been decreed by management that only a finite number of youngsters may be with this pied piper at a time and there are named individuals who are allowed in with me. We had an incident yesterday where a few youngsters went to the pub to wait for me, knowing I was due. Excuse me? This is not the old place. It is a pub. You can’t just go in there when I’m not there, not buy a drink and simply wait for me. I have to limit the number of people I can be with because there are only a certain number that I can deal with at any one time and only a finite number of youngsters that the pub will allow in together. So there are names down who are pre-approved by the landlord. Anyone is welcome to come and find me but preferably by appointment and not too many at a time. And if I don’t know you, you’re probably not getting in. Those who know me have my number. If you don’t have my number, you can’t arrange to meet me. If you don’t have my number, chances are you don’t know me. By extension, I don’t know you or your name.

So if your name’s not down, you’re not getting into my little court.

Captain’s Log, Supplemental:

I should point out to the plastic police who read this – and they do – that the work which I may be undertaking is permitted work whilst claiming ESA. ESA is Earnings Support Allowance: it’s what it says on the tin. I’m allowed to earn up to a certain amount per week, working less than sixteen hours per week. I am not fit for full time work but I am able to prepare myself for an eventual return to full time employment. It’s working with food and people, so it’s doing something I enjoy; voluntarily at first to build up business, then paid. I have to inform DWP of both the voluntary and paid work, which I will do. I don’t need anyone else to do it for me. Neither do I need a defective detective to contact my employer to point out that I have alcohol issues, as has happened in the past and which intervention lost me a job. My drinking is under control and my potential employer knows this as I drink in his pub.

Captain’s Log, supplemental supplemental:

Well, don’t you know, don’t you know, fer fucksake…

The day’s plans have changed already as I’m not now seeing my kid sister. The Courts has to see her social worker and social services apparently want to speak to me because they believe that me and The Courts are “Up to something”. Typical of the other set of plastic police to assume that because a young girl has a close relationship with someone of my age, there’s something going on. Or someone spiteful has told them lies. It’s happened before. I’m a surrogate parent and big brother to this girl, who came to me when she had no-one else. I used to have to speak to her foster carer every evening when The Courts stayed with me for five weeks because she refused to go anywhere other than somewhere I was. The foster carer then had to report back to social services to let them know that the girl was safe. I’ve spoken to both her real mum and step dad and they’re okay with the situation, confident that there is nothing inappropriate going on. Even the proper police were confident in this knowledge, as The Courts and myself are both known to them. Given this, it is most likely therefore that some do-gooder defective detective has been at work and reported us to the plastic brigade. Reported nothing as there’s nothing to report. Get a life, like I’m trying to. 

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