We have to keep the country going second draft

The reality of my on-going situation hit me hard earlier today.
It began as I walked with my wife along the one of alleyways, or twittens, as they are called both quaintly and colloquially, which run like flint lined venules between the large lumpy houses that connect this village together.
The weather was inclement, even for early July and the damp could be breathed between the warm sweet scent of the magnolia coloured flowers from the heavily veined trees; and the plump buds of the blackberry bushes that seem to be twice their size this year; ever awaiting the tiny anorexic bees that seem, so far into the season, very few and far between.
I noted with perhaps more resentment than I think was accurate in looking back at the start of it, how I felt by one of the many dog walkers who tend to treat these alley ways as their own personal domain. I noted her long grey face was brown lined and she stared with a googly eyed resentment that only comes from being one of the superior class.
As we passed Lynette received the gentle: "good morning dear” as I was given a polite, yet distant mirthless smile a nod and quick “a good morning.”

‘There we are again’ I began. Giving the air of the suffering socialist trapped in a vampire world of people with Tory values.‘I think I am evolving into Robert Neville.’
My loving wife, Lynette, seemed to fail to fully understand my on-going resentment, or it seemed the literary connection. But her large round brown eyes and loving smile have always worked their charm; she took my hand and, as always, I felt a little better. It’s amazing what another person’s loving hand can actually do. It is such a little thing, yet it’s one of the most profound and for me very intimate.
‘What do you mean?’
‘More of the towns, social order allowing itself to be felt.’
‘You don’t know that’s what she was thinking.-’
‘You don’t understand, I lived in a village, I know what word of mouth is like.’I stumbled on, but I already knew attempting to stand up to her in this argument was not going to work.
‘-and you’re making a judgement’
Here it comes I thought.
‘And everyone is allowed an opinion.’
Today, of all days, this was not the thing to say.
‘It seems everyone is entitled to an opinion other than me.’ I snapped.
The remark was pointed. It shot out of me like a fire cracker, I almost regretted it, but not enough, after all, don’t I matter? Am I not allowed an opinion? Am I being judgmental?
The truth is of course I was. I was inflamed for several reasons, and the old dog walker, whose nastier old sheep dog were the final stepping stones of months of problems, that began nearly two years previously, with the closing down of the incapacity benefit, the confusing loss of my small job at the local primary school and the closing of my bank account as the debt of five hundred quid from an overdraft facility, that I should not have been entitled to kept taking its toll every single month. All of this led to being given what the D.W.P call “The easy payment card” a card that is far from easy to use. I won't go into the detail as to how the easy payment card actually works, its complicated enough, and made even more complex when the Department of work and pensions cannot even recognize an individuals date of birth.
This card, which is burgundy in colour, is taken to a local shop: in this case, it’s the village newsagent and after giving over my birth date, a secret number that the DWP cannot get right, my disability living allowance: the sum of eighty four pounds per calendar month, or 16 pounds per week, is given over the counter to cover travelling expenses enabling myself to get out of the village and into the wider world.
‘Your snapping.’
‘I’m not’ Now I sounded defensive and resentful. I could feel another little row brewing.
I felt a pang as she withdrew her hand. I felt the weight in my chest grow and the weight of my passport in my pocket, as we entered Martins the newsagent.
Steyning is Twee. its a village trapped in a time-warp; that seems to have stopped at around about nineteen fifty nine. Possibly around tea time on the fifth of August. Why that particular time, I honestly cannot say, other than it seems like a pretty good day to stop time in a place. Its shops, quaint and occasionally welcoming offer designer clothes, several charity shops, three pubs, the newsagents, a post office a fishmonger, two butchers an old fashioned sweet-shop one co-op, a ludicrously priced grocer with BBC connections, several old ladies hairdressers, and the best bookshop around.
The town is also old, and has at its heart a grammar school that dates back to the fifteenth century, yet has more connections to smuggling and the French that it would like to admit to that also reminds me of that most famous of murderous villages: Midsomer,only a little more creepier.
In this respect, the newsagent is no different. It smells of age, stale brews, stale cigarettes and that musty smell that only comes with aged paper; With its old oak beams, dark cream walls its shelves closely packed with village vitals, such as tea, coffee, to the right and to the far left the magazines that start as basic periodicals on the floor to those who have more candied tastes on the upper shelves. (Its also the only store where I have seen both private eye and Razzle magazine next to each other.) while in front of the counter, a large box shelf is filled host of sweets to give kids a high for a month and a newly formed diabetic like myself the shits for a week. I joined the queue, which rapidly then grew, behind me from two, to then five to seven people, mostly elderly gentlemen who bought the Daily Mail, whose headline ran: “Jobless mother of 11 gets home built for her”
I handed over my burgundy card.
‘Ahh’ said the employee behind the counter, behind her were the cigarettes all shouting Cancer kills in a choir of black letters on a white background. Reminding me of my grandfather.
She looked at my card with an awkward stare. Her brown hair matched the colour of her fake tan her eyes, were brown, mirthless, and her smile was dour and false.
‘If you can give me the card now, I’ll take your details, but I have to serve others first.’ She started with a viscous challenge expecting me to bite. 'It's the managers orders' She finished.
I said nothing and handed over my passport She took my passport and card and then she served the elderly gentlemen with their copies of the mail, who all stared at me with a sense of resentful detachment.
I stared at them with the same resentment that they directed me with. I could feel my hands become tight balls of torment, as my wife slowly stepped back towards the magazine rack at the far end of the shop; just above her head, a copy of "Razzle" showed a woman -not that different from the employee- dressed in black leather and a whip. She stared at me from the photograph suggestively.
‘Could I have your number please?’ the employee asked.
‘one seven, zero three, one nine, six seven.’ The pause between the numbers was pronounced; perhaps I treated her as if she was imbecilic. I measured the tone. I had to.
Then another person came in the shop, this time a large round elderly red haired woman with asthma, at which point my card and passport were thrown back at me.
‘Oh, hello Maureen how are you?’ the employee said with genuine affection, at which point Maureen replied that she was well.
‘Did your mum have a nice holiday?’
‘yes thanks. But back to the grindstone today.’
‘Yes, after all, we all have to keep the country going.’ The comment was heavily hinted and directed at me.
I felt the resentment directed at me begin to bristle again. After all I was not keeping the country going, I was not supporting the nation, I was a greedy sponger living off the fat of others long hours and hard work. I was not one of them. I could feel the hate the unwanted, the ugliness of what I was to her. I was not a person, I did not matter. My history was not important, I was not important. A small tear built of fury curled down my cheek. I wanted to smash this little shop up and all her little stock. That would keep the country going that would show them all.
My wife finally came round the back of the sweet stand to take her place at my side, as for the fourth and final time I gave my card and my number.
‘Sorry, is she with you?’ asked the employee. I think if I had said no, she would have served her too.
‘Are you o.k?’ Lynette’s warm words softened me just enough to gain a modicum of composure.
‘No…not really’ I replied.
‘There.’ she said as she handed me the money in small denominations.
‘I can have it in larger notes if you like?’ But I have to open the other till.
‘That’s fine.’ I said.
I left the shop feeling truly segregated; and began to wonder is this how the Jew felt before the Second World War? Was this the beginning of something far darker? I turned to Lynette, and tried to comprehend what had actually happened, was I to blame? Is being epileptic my fault, is being diabetic my fault? What can I do to get a job? Who wants me?
‘Here, have the money.’ I said to Lynette.
‘Darling it’s yours, here, have some of it.’ She tried to give me fifty quid in fivers.
‘I don’t want anything from this cock government!’ I shouted; as slowly and very tenderly she put the money inn her purse.