Unemployed Robert. Gets up on certain days out of sluggish bed to yawn, slams door behind to step lightly onto his next errand, travels here n thereabouts with love and hate struggling for supremacy in his mind.
Or they sends him a little scrap o paper stuck through his letterbox and he opens it with wearisome hate at government like we all have, surveys the stern departmental exhortations, the black n white scrawly print, signs his quick name on the form saying "I am actively seeking work and am entitled to this money" and clumps to post it off again. That big, grey department, shady in their rooms, humble with power and pretensions of being public servants, sitting around at desks in front of computer screens clickety-clicking, ordinary men and ladies with ordinary dumb homes, receive it like a row of facts and figures and registrations and numbers to click it nearly on their windowscreen computery file, caring absolutely nothing for it in their efficiency, and then plumf! Three days later he gets girocheque through letterbox, ordered there by the shady lady secretaries and government misanthropes and he goes, cashes it, takes home bundles of paper and so on, ad nauseam... Grotesque unemployment benefit, he hates it, makes him sick.
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