It’s chockers with stuff like
the definition of a partner, the Widow Allowance, the personal income test,
working credit, deeming, proof and use of identity, and the employment pathway
plan. By far the largest section of its 26 pages is devoted to the Activity
Test—proving that you’re genuinely looking for work.
The activity test suggests at
one point that a person, sorry, job seeker, might need to apply for 10 jobs in
a fortnight. The job seeker is required to be ‘willing to take any suitable
job’ they are ‘capable of doing’ and go on approved training courses. My
Weeties never tasted so good.
Next course is a quick revisit
of the requirements of Mod F which wants all the details of my one-person
business. I don’t have the requested profit and loss statements or an asset
depreciation register. I spend time online with my bank. I rat in my filing
cabinet and print documents that prove that I’m me, that I have no aliases,
don’t run a fleet of vehicles or own an apartment tower, have no gold bullion
or de facto wife, and bank statements that prove I’ll be down to a brass razoo
by next Monday. I doubt it will satisfy them.
All this is complete by 5:35
and I’m free to have a cuppa, walk the JRT, take a dump, load the Red Rocket
into the car and drive it to the car dealer that sold it to me four and a half
years ago for a major service. The service manager tells me the service is
going to sting me for about $650. The blood rushes to my feet.
I leave it with them at 8:30.
My Centrelink appointment is at 9:10. I pedal over via the Blood Bank where I
make an appointment to donate plasma in a fortnight. I enter Centrelink 25
minutes early which is just as well because a snaky line backs up to the door
and along the front wall. Eventually I make the waiting area.
“Leigh.” Ah, I am the chosen
one. Another Leigh rises from his chair and follows the Centrelink employee who
called his name, my name. And indeed, it is me being summoned.
Rock on.
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