xjyfortune.pics
You'll probably look at this and think I'm ill — that I've just come through treatment. This photo is one of the happiest moments of my whole life. Rent arrears: £1,600. In account: £22. My name's Claire. I'm 37 and I've lived in Erdington, Birmingham, for ten years. I work in cleaning for Mitie — offices, medical centres, corridors in the city centre. Just me and my daughter Ruby, who's nine. Between wages and child benefit I get a little over £1,300 a month. Rent takes £800. Then the Swift card, gas and electric, water, Asda, the monthly payment on the Vanquis loan that never ends — another £450-odd that's gone before I've seen it. By the end of the month I'm barely getting there. Sometimes I'm not. When the Halifax drops below fifty, something tightens in my chest. Mitie lost the contract with their main client. Out of nowhere. I was on a zero-hours contract — got a call saying there were no more shifts. Claimed Universal Credit the same day. But the five-week wait. Two months and I couldn't cover rent or the Vanquis payment. I'd spoken to the landlord twice before he went through a solicitor. Second time he wasn't interested in listening. One morning I found two envelopes in the letterbox. I opened them there on the landing, coat still on. One from the solicitor — a Section 8 notice. The other from Vanquis — a default notice. Dates. Figures. All in black and white. I went in and made a brew. That evening Ruby asked if everything was alright. I said yes. After that I'd slow down at the letterbox every night before I opened it. Grace has lived on our street for years. She came over from the Philippines long before Ruby was born — that's how long we've known each other. Her husband lost his job at the warehouse last year, and since then I can see it in her face. I get it. One evening she knocked. She'd seen me come in with the envelopes. I told her what was happening. She paused a minute, then — Claire, I'm going to tell you something, but don't laug
