Vivaldi and the DWP
Words by Ross W. Marriott You’re on the phone. It’s 9 in the morning and you’ve been on hold for half an hour. You’re trying to get through to the Job Centre because, as luck would have it, your mate's managed to blag you a free plane ticket to Portugal. You’ve had a bit of a wonky spell recently - rough health and next-to-no wealth. After 9 months, you’re finally ready for a break, even if it’s only for seven days. But there lies in front of you one obstacle: the DWP. Being on the phone to the DWP is like being a contestant on the Crystal Maze; all of your faculties - physical, mental, skill and sense of mystery - are tested as you jump through the hoops the government has placed before you. A bureaucratic, Kafka-esque nightmare awaits all ye who seek assistance. And if you succeed? You get to survive another week. At least, until they sanction your pants off. You're eventually greeted by an automated recording of a headmistress from the 19
