The Claimant

“You're not likely to be well enough to work, Mr Willis, ” says my doctor. I gawp at him. It's all right for him. He has a well paid job and looks happy and healthy. Neat dark hair, metal rimmed glasses and dark jacket. I'm not yet fifty but I've become an old man since my stroke.

“How am I supposed to live?” I ask, the words coming out as a rasp.

“You can apply for benefits. Ask the receptionists. They have some information.” He hands me a sick note.

I grasp my stick, push myself out of the chair and limp from the room. The surgery is in a posh new building. The reception desk is built of polished wood and the two young women behind it could have stepped from a TV ad. The dark girl is working on her computer, while the blonde is talking to someone on the phone. As I stand, leaning on the counter, I'm conscious how scruffy I've become. My anorak hasn't been washed for some time and has changed colour from blue to grey. I've grown a stubbly beard. For a while, I struggled to get out of bed, and couldn't be bothered to shave.

The dark girl gives me a smile – all teeth and lipstick. “Can I help?”

“Doctor said you had information on benefits.”

“Did he? ” She scans her computer. “ All we've got is the phone number of the Department of Work and Pensions. You need to talk to them.”

I hobble to the bus stop, leaning on my stick. It irks me I need to buy a bus ticket because I can neither drive nor walk to my flat. In the past, I had enough money to live on. Of course, when my marriage broke down, I had to pay towards the cost of bringing up my kids. But they're grown up now. My job in the warehouse brought in a steady wage, so I could run a car and buy a decent bed and a couple of armchairs for the flat. But the stroke put an end to the job and I've run out of sick pay.

It's not far from the bus stop to my flat but it takes me twenty minutes to walk. So I collapse in my only remaining armchair and rest for a while. It's not a bad flat. As soon as I moved in, I painted the walls blue, rather than plain white. I put up shelves and built a cabinet for my CD and DVD collection. Woodwork is another thing I can't do any longer.

When I ring the number I've been given, I get no reply. I try several times and am cursing by the time a woman replies. She says I have to complete a form to apply for Employment and Support Allowance, but it can be done on the telephone. I start answering the questions, but there are facts I need to check. Once I've found the information, I ring back to finish the form but getting through on the phone takes me as long as it did the first time. My life begins to feel like a long, slow slog up a steep hill.

After a while, I get a letter saying I would get Employment and Support Allowance but I'd have to undergo a medical assessment. There's another form with a lot of questions about my health. I start to fill it in, then sit and wonder what to put. I don't think I'm stupid. After all, I've done a range of jobs in warehouses. I've packed most things from books to jewellery and bicycle parts – you'd be surprised what some people order. Then I trained to drive forklift trucks and knew how much they could safely lift. But it takes me ages to fill in the form.

Someone rings me up, saying I must go to a medical appointment in Brighton. How am I supposed to get there? I would need to take two buses and the second would drop me too far from the assessment centre for me to walk. I can't drive any longer because my left foot doesn't work properly and I sold my car. In the end, my son Tony takes time off work to drive me there.

It's a grubby place. The doors might have been white once but have big patches of grey round the handles. Rows of metal chairs stand on a carpet which is stained and stinks of piss. Some of the people waiting are obviously ill – a man with a neck brace and another with only one leg. I show my passport to a woman who sits in a little office behind a glass screen. Then I wait. At last, I am called into a little room with a white covered bed and a desk. A young woman sits by the computer on the desk. Although she's wearing a white coat, she looks hardly old enough to be a qualifed nurse.

She avoids looking at me as she asks questions. “How far can you walk?”

“I can walk down the bottom of my road, as long as I've got my stick, but it takes me ages.”

“How far is that?”

I shrug. “Not sure. Fifty, sixty yards perhaps.”

She enters something on her computer and continues.“Can you use your right hand?”

“Yes, but my left's pretty useless.”

“Are you right handed?”

“Yes.”

I begin to feel as if I'm suspected of some crime and everything I say is being used against me.

The letter that arrives from the DWP poleaxes me. It says I'm well enough to work, despite the certificate from my doctor. I sit in my flat and wonder what on earth to do next. The letter says I can apply for a mandatory reconsideration but it's best to write a letter, saying why the decision is wrong. The idea fills me with dismay. How can I write a letter that's clever enough to convince a load of bureaucrats?

It's cold in my flat and there's only a bottle of milk and half a loaf in the fridge. I can't afford to turn the heating on, or to go shopping for food. I've already sold one of my armchairs and my Hi-fi system but I want to keep the TV. That's essential to keep me occupied, since I don't go out much. Once, I used to play football with my local team. I was goalkeeper, because I was tall and good at catching. On most Saturdays, I'd either be playing on the town's pitch against another local side, or travelling with the rest of the lads. I used to smoke a bit and like a pint of beer but not to excess. And now I'm sitting in my little flat with nothing.

The only useful advice in the letter from DWP is to talk to Citizens Advice. So next day, I go and look for their office in the town centre. It's close to Christmas now and it's one of those grey, drizzly days when the sun never shines. Although patterns of lights are slung across the High Street, they aren't lit up in the day time, so they don't make the place any more cheerful. People are hurrying from shop to car park with their heads down, trying to stay dry.

I find the Citizens Advice office, in a building that sticks out behind a bank. It's bleak and functional. The walls of the waiting room are covered with posters, some saying what Citizens Advice do, while others warn of scams, or call people to give blood. There are racks full of leaflets as well but I don't read them. Someone gives me a form to complete but this one is easy.

A grey haired woman invites me into an interview room. She's small, so I lumber after her like a clumsy giant. It is a tiny space, only big enough for a desk with a computer and a couple of chairs. A window with a blue blind gives a glimpse of a car park.

She draws up a chair opposite me. “How can I help you?”

I take out my form and spread it on the desk. “I applied for Employment and Support Allowance and I got this letter.”

“Lots of people get turned down.” She shows me a page on her computer. “ You need to apply for mandatory reconsideration.”

“I don't know how to do that,” I say, aware I must sound stupid.

“You need medical evidence. Have you seen a specialist?”

“Yeah, a stroke specialist.”

“Include any letters from him or her.”

I can see myself going round in circles for ever. “I'll have to go back to my doctor.”

“When you write the letter, you need to prove you can't do the things they say you can do. ”

Although it seemed odd asking this bright eyed little woman for help, it was my best chance. “Can you help me?”

She nods. “We can give you an appointment, but you must bring in letters from your doctors.”

“All of this is going to take ages,” I say, thinking of the empty shelves in my fridge.

“DWP ought to restore the benefit while they reconsider. If you're having difficulty getting about, you could apply for a Personal Independence Payment.”

I gawp at her. “That will be another form to fill in, I suppose.”

“I'm afraid so. But I can give you a voucher for the food bank to tide you over.”

Although I've heard of the food bank run by the church, I never thought I'd need it. I used to be a proud man, earning my keep and paying my way. But I meekly take the food voucher and a couple of information sheets, then shuffle out of the office.

I approach the church awkwardly, because I haven't been inside one since Tony's wedding. To my relief, I find the food bank in a hall behind the church. Inside, it is painted white, with plastic chairs and tables set out like a café. At one end, a counter stands in front of a little kitchen and shelves loaded with food. Several middle aged and elderly women are waiting at the counter.

I limp towards them and hand over my voucher. The woman who takes it looks older than me. She's better off though, judging from her neat perm and a pendant that could be amethyst.

“What do you want?” she asked, starting to fill a box with tins of baked beans and packets of tea.

I look at the box. “I can't carry that.”

“We can fill a couple of carrier bags instead.”

When she has filled two bags, I thank her and try to pick them up. It's a struggle to carry them and use my stick at the same time. I lug the bags onto the bus and collapse in the nearest seat. When I reach my flat, I dump the bags and the information sheets the woman from Citizens Advice gave me in my kitchenette. I sit in my armchair and cover my eyes with my hands.

It seems my life has turned into one big obstacle race. No sooner have I climbed over one hurdle, another one appears. If I can't get these benefits, I'll be completely broke. Even if I can, all I'll have is a bare flat with just enough to eat. I'm already finding it difficult getting out and meeting people but how will I manage if I haven't got enough to pay for a round with old friends? My future seems very bleak. I never had much time for people who kill themselves. Losers, I thought. But, when I see my life stretching out full of worry about how to make ends meet I ask myself “Is it worth the hassle?”