I have lived alone in a small rented house for more than six years. I am in my 60s. Winter is not as harsh here in the south-west but a sea fog roils along the coast that clings to your face and heads straight for your lungs.
I live in an affluent village where Agas, wood burners and underfloor heating abound. No one knows the secret I am ashamed to share: that I have no idea how I’ll survive this winter.
The recent turmoil in Downing Street only adds to my anxieties. For them it’s all about power. The irony of that word is not lost when I’m terrified to turn on the gas or electricity. I’m sceptical that Rishi Sunak will bring hope or change. He is super rich, which presumably means not having to worry about the cost of anything. So it’s unfathomable that he can relate to anyone unable to afford fresh fruit for their kids, £9.35 for a prescription, or a tank of petrol to get to work. I’ve never been super rich but I was once comfortable, and back then I rarely looked at the price of food except for the turkey at Christmas. I just shoved it in the trolley without a second thought, because I could.
I have worked as a freelancer for years but this is new territory to me, a perfect storm of low pay, eye-watering prices and my sixtysomething age. Experience translates as expense to many potential recruiters, especially when there’s a younger, cheaper labour force. I don’t yet claim benefits, and am teetering around the poverty trap, but it will be inevitable if I lose the client who is the source of much of my work – which looks increasingly likely. On benefits, I would fall prey to the bedroom tax because I have a small spare room, so any rent allowance would be cut by 14%.
I am fortunate in that my landlord continues to be understanding, and has not yet put up the rent, which is £600 a month. My council tax is a large burden, at almost £150 a month even with a single person’s allowance. My fixed dual-fuel energy plan ends this month and then I transfer to a variable rate. So far I’ve used 28% less gas and 11% less electricity than last year. I feel financially adrift, waiting for the iceberg to hit. Getting ill terrifies me because there isn’t much of a safety net for the self-employed. Let me rephrase that: there isn’t much of a safety net for anyone.
It reminds me of the insecurity I felt growing up on a council estate. When I went to grammar school and needed regulation shoes and uniform they were bought with loans at eye-watering interest rates from a company that preyed on people like my parents, who were simply doing their best. Education was my way up, and for a while I swam at the top. Bad relationships, my own inadequacies and bankruptcy ended all that. I am now worse off than my parents, certainly in terms of the welfare state, access to health care and job security. They never owned their own home. I lost mine. It is still very painful.
I microwave food and use a single induction hob from Ikea that cost £35 and is brilliant. Sometimes, I make a stew in my one-person slow cooker, using pearl barley to bulk it out like my mum taught me.
The bread I liked is now £2.10 for a small loaf, up from £1.50, which was good value because it froze great and lasted ages. I no longer have a freezer so the loaf is out of my league. I shop at the end of the day and hunt down reduced stickers but even these aren’t as generous. The only fresh fruit I eat is bananas and oranges. Soft fruit is off the menu. Instead I buy cans: a small tin of peach slices in fruit juice is 70p and pears are the same price. I have put my small garden to work with chard, broccoli, onions and tiny leeks growing. The garden helps, it’s really mindful. It’s become my safe space. I haven’t used a food bank yet but it may not stay that way.
I am disposable to a government intent on cuts dressed up as “efficiencies”. A friend bought me some coffee the other day. Kindness and caffeine in a jar. I cried when they had gone, from anger at inept politicians ruining people’s lives for some ideological thrill and my own pride at having to accept charity.
I can live like this because there is just me. It only affects me and I am, for now, fit and well. But I could not have lived this way when I had my child to keep warm or when I cared for my mum with Alzheimer’s before she died. I can’t imagine the unremitting pressure of providing for the young or the old and the horror of not being able to. I really am lucky.
Marin lives in the south-west of England and is in her 60s. Her name has been changed
• The Trussell Trust is an anti-poverty charity that campaigns to end the need for food banks. Show your support at: trusselltrust.org/guardian
