Benefits Appeal
Andorra, I write. Austria. Bangladesh. Belgium. Chile. Then next to them I write, very carefully and slowly, the time difference. Plus one. Plus one. Plus six. Plus one. Minus three.
Canada. China. Croatia. Minus five. Plus eight. Plus one.
When you are being paid by the hour it’s important to work as slowly as possible. Once I’ve filled a few pages of the notebook I turn to the screen and slowly type up my notes. Then I type in the telephone numbers and office address I’ve been given. After every five numbers or so I imagine the money I’ve just earned. By lunchtime there is an imaginary stack of pound coins teetering on the desk. It’s more satisfying to imagine coins.
After lunch, I call everyone on my list. I speak loudly and deliberately, the way English people do when faced with a foreign ear. I read the office addresses back to the receptionists and wait for them to say ‘yes’ or ‘si’ or ‘da’. I decide to assume the offices in New Zealand have the correct address. And the ones in China. I spend the rest of the day cutting and pasting the addresses onto sheets of labels, and hunting out the marketing materials and the envelopes to stuff them into. I have bought myself an extra days work with my measured caution. The rest of the office flows around me. I am the temp in the corner. Nameless.
The next day I write a letter to all the offices, explaining why we are sending them posters. I print out one hundred and fifty and then sit down to sign them all. I enjoy signing my name. I like my signature. I practised to get it perfect. Sometimes I sign my last name and sometimes only my first. It doesn’t matter. My name is illegible signed. I imagine my signature flying to every tiny corner of the world. It will be well travelled, even if I am not.
Then I set up my desk with the letters and posters in front of me and the envelopes by my side and print out the address labels. I can hear the pound coins chinking through my mind as I stuff the envelopes. Every twenty minutes or so another couple of pounds tumble through. The radio is on but it’s too quiet for me to hear it, and I keep imagining it’s playing a familiar song when it isn’t. I’m sat by the window, but I’m still too warm. The strip lights are hurting my eyes. I concentrate on the coins. There is silver amongst the gold. They pool together by my computer, a dull mass, no longer stacked. I’m getting paper cuts across my paper cuts. Secretary scars.
I take the labels and smooth them onto the bulging envelopes. I feel the countries under my fingers and imagine the letter arriving. I imagine the doctors in Chicago being vaguely annoyed by more junk mail. I imagine PAs and receptionists tipping them into the bin without opening them. Most of these posters will never be displayed. Then I imagine the tiny communities baffled by the sudden interest from the UK, calling people into their office to show them the letter. I imagine them tacking the poster up. I imagine each country as I peel the labels from the sheet, until my head is so filled with the babble and clatter of different accents and languages I have to stop for a couple of minutes and take a drink of water. Some of these places I’ve never heard of. Tokelau. Tajikistan. The Mariana Islands. I feel almost sorry for the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. As though they’ve stopped being one thing but are yet to decide upon being another.
They’ve given me a small bottle capped with a sponge to save my tongue from the envelopes. I squeeze it harder or softer depending how far away the countries are. France. Squeeze, wipe. South Africa. Squeeze, squeeze, wipe. I’m not concentrating when I do Fiji and almost squeeze the bottle dry. The seal of the envelope swells and curls under the glue.
When I’ve finished I lean back and look at the pile of money I’ve conjured up. I fill out my timesheet and fax it across. It’s Friday. I am glad of it.