Crisis? What Crisis?

Following on from my application for a Crisis Loan, I go to the side entrance to Clarendon House for my 1pm appointment. Already, the room is packed.

The Crisis Loan payment office is a little appendage to the main Clarendon House building, just at the side, opposite the Pyramids swimming pool (which I used to go to years ago). It has old-fashioned steel framed grey doors and windows, a throwback to the 1970s. The counter itself is like the reception of Fort Knox, a little window with bullet proof glass, I imagine. However, there are some comfortable but immovable chairs to sit on, packed with about 20 people and 5 children. A few pushchairs just for good measure.

I go to one of the five interview rooms for an appointment with someone - a Customer Service Assistant, or Clerical Officer in 1970s DSS parlance - who gets me to sign a form agreeing to the terms and conditions of my £30 "loan". I agree, of course, and then sign the letter.

Everything is now in motion and I am asked to come back at 2pm to receive payment (an old-fashioned girocheque which I can take to the designated post office, up the road in Sidwell Street). The terms and conditions are basically that I agree to a £6.70 reduction from my standard Jobseeker's Allowance, whenever it is eventually paid.

I go for a walk, visit Waterstone's the booksellers up in the High Street/Paris Street junction, and then return at 2pm.

A middle-aged, tall thin man with a respectably clean shirt and tattered jeans is his mobile phone, presumably to a friend.

"The cunts won't pay me any money. They owe me a grand anywhere."

My sort of language - just plain old Derek and Clive (Peter Cook and Dudley Moore) - but a bit incongrous in this quiet, official type of place.

Eventually, the blind is pulled up at the payment counter and a woman runs her eyes over a list of people to be paid. I am on it somewhere, I hope.

"Mrs Sanderson", she proclaims in her best official yet unpompous accent. Said woman duly stands up and approaches the counter.

In the end, I go to the window and receive my cheque. £30, cashable up at the post office.

Not surprisingly, when I reach the Post Office a few minutes later (via Cheeke Street, past Somerfield - the old Express & Echo offices and printing works), the very same people who were in the queue at Clarendon House are now in the queue at the Post Office. I think the counter staff here know its Crisis Loan payment time - they must get this rush often, just at the same time.