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Doleful


Quite a long time ago I existed on the dole in Edinburgh. One of life’s few pleasures back then was the prestigious Usher Hall selling unsold seats for a mere £4 to welfare claimants on performance days.

        Dressed in finest poverty, including a woollen coat bought from a charity shop, I regularly witnessed world-class orchestras play their symphony music.

        One time I was even blessed to land a centre seat at the front of the first circle.

        The usher collecting tickets that night stared down at me with contemptuous disbelief as I climbed plush carpeted stairs to where he maintained guard. This fellow recognised me, as I did him, from his day job working for the dole office.

        Oh how delicious it was to see his demeanour change when presented with my pass for what was undoubtedly the best vantage point in the entire theatre. Perhaps it dawned on him there and then that not all benefit claimants were chronic dole-wallahs after all and that some of us had a right to live life as best we could?

        Some days later while giving my signature at the dole office our man called me over. From behind sad eyes he launched quietly into how he’d lost his wife to cancer.

 

 

© copyright Russell Cavanagh  

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