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Playing the Entitlement Card


  I’ve inherited Eirwen’s sense of entitlement. (She's my mother.)  After I was confirmed, I expected to be casting out demons.  And I’m miffed at the low impact nature of my paranoia.  I should be unable to watch television because I think the canned laugher is at me; be convinced that anyone’s mobile phone ringing will be the Freemasons checking up on me; be unable to go to a barber’s or clip my toe nails, because a witch doctor would use the hair and the clippings to make that planned voodoo doll of me.

  Oh, and I had stress-sinusitis when I was went to a funding circle to pay for my own audiobook. 

  The beggars outside Morrison's, Wood Green, all believe that they alone are entitled to work that pitch.  Each in turn will go and fetch security to see off the others.
  One was sitting holding up a sign that said I am dumb and homeless.  
  'See,' said another, 'having that sign is an unfair advantage.'
  'But he's dumb...' security insisted.
  'I wasn't so hot on school, either...oh...!'

  Later, Jehovah's Witnesses set up their stand.  They sang hymns. 
  A woman in a sou'wester and Ugg boots waved them to silence and pointed at the beggar with the sign.  'Hardly a level playing field: him being dumb but you singing hymns.'

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