My dad is entitled to a rebate from his electricity provider – which got more and more urgent when temperatures dropped to -8C. He doesn’t have central heating, he’s 6ft 4in but only weighs about 8 stone. He needs the space heater on, but electricity has been costing him £15 a week. To claim the rebate on his behalf – which isn’t paid in cash, it just credits his account – I have to go to a post office with one of three forms of ID: either a passport, a driving licence or a utility bill. But my dad doesn’t have a passport or a driving licence. What’s the point when you’re too sick to travel or drive? He doesn’t have a utility bill as it’s all done online: who has a utility bill in 2023?
For weeks, my life has been hanging on the phone to his electricity provider, who assure me every time that the post office will accept alternative ID, like letters from the DWP or the council or the NHS – and then queueing in every post office within walking distance, only to be turned away in front of a long line of neighbours because it’s not the ID specified by the provider.
Yesterday, finally, my dad told me to give up as I probably looked too scruffy – and ask my landlord to have a go instead. My landlord went in – a middle-aged, middle class, white man – and the post office added the rebate to my dad’s account straight away. It may be just coincidence, but things like that make me so angry. I’m walking around in this total rage – and then a day later, I’m numb, then I’m so tired and exhausted to my bones, I feel like I’m going to cry. Then all that passes and I feel really accepting of all the stuff I can’t change – before something happens to trigger the anger again. I’m living on this constant emotional rollercoaster.
Loads of my energy is spent keeping Dad warm. It’s hot-water bottles, blankets and I’ve now ordered him heated clothing – leggings and a vest that you can charge up with a USB, a bit like an electric blanket, but wearable. They were expensive – £30, so it was a big decision – but he’s so poorly that if he doesn’t stay warm, he’ll die. Like everything in the post, though, they still haven’t arrived.
We had a quiet Christmas this year. With Dad, everything is always up in the air. No one wants to make plans in case he’s not well enough to do anything – and when you’re poor, you don’t tend to plan an awful lot anyway. You live day to day – and it’s really noticeable that everybody seems to be planning less. It’s getting weirder in this country. No post, no trains, no ambulances. The strikes have been a long time coming.
No one is talking about nights out; there’s not a lot of getting together. The thermostat is kept at 10 in my home, so it’s not the best place to invite your mates, although the family did manage to gather on Christmas Eve.
I’m feeling hopeful that Dad is going to get a bit better next year. After seven months of waiting with the NHS, he has just had some polyps removed from his colon and he seems to be improving. I think he’s starting to eat more again. My Christmas present for him was clothes in a bigger size as I’m hoping that he’s going to put on weight – although, of course, they’re still in the post.
As told to Anna Moore. Siobhan is in her 30s and lives in the Midlands. Names have been changed
The Trussell Trust is an anti-poverty charity that campaigns to end the need for food banks. Show your support at: trusselltrust.org/guardian
