My stepchildren don't ask for much, which is handy, because I haven't got much. I've been on the pension for eight years and, aside from four hours cleaning a week, it's what puts food on the table. But there is not much left over for the stuff teenagers like.
Sometimes I feel guilty. Sometimes I feel like I don't do my bit and that I'm a blight on society. Am I disabled? Or am I just lazy? Is Bipolar Mood Disorder real? Is my tremor real? A little voice in my head still says I'm just over-emotional and weak. That little voice haunts me sometimes.
I come from a long line of hard workers. Three generations of Wharf Labourers, in the days when the docks meant hard physical labour. I remember my grandfather and father talking about work: about Appleton Dock and Station Pier, and the names of the ships they unloaded. Their work was a big part of who they were.
They headed off on shifts that sometimes turned 'double header', which meant they'd work 16 hours straight. They kept turning up day after day, year after year. Sometimes I wonder what the old boys would make of me. What would they say to a bloke who doesn't work? Would they be as generous as the government is? Or would they just not mention it? Would they see me as a failure? Or is that just me projecting my self doubt?
My three brothers are hard workers. They're all in the building trade, and God knows that's a tough game. During the past eight years while I've done nothing, the boys have kept right on working. Building, producing, earning. I love and respect my brothers for who they are and what they've achieved, but sometimes feel like a weak link in the chain.
Like their forbears my brothers often talk about their work. They say they hate it and that getting up each day is a struggle, but I know deep down they wouldn't have it any other way. They don't rely on the government. They're supporting themselves.
A day's work is a ritual to them. Their trade is a type of religion, while the endless cycle is almost a prayer. Down the street I see workers in overalls, and for some reason I can't look them in the eye.
When I get a bit despondent my wife Carolyn