The Curmudgeon

It was certainly demanding the spending of a lot of money with menaces. And it was written by someone whose wages I pay.

It probably came from Whitehall but I suspect the master criminal behind it hangs out in Brussels.

And to do what he demands, I must demolish our kitchen, make our "master" bedroom into a single, and tear a massive hole in the attic floor.

If not, says my threatening correspondent, I could face unlimited fines and/or damages or, if I refuse to comply, the rest of my days behind bars.

What galls even more is that this threat comes from the newly created Department of Works and Pensions which, as I have been working and paying taxes for more than 40 years, I stupidly thought was supposed to look after me as I enter my dotage.

My problem, you see, is that I run a small business, like hundreds of thousands of other men and women in this realm, many of them performing much more useful services like mending leaking pipes or roofs and the like.

But as I employ between one and 15 people (that means me and Mrs C who helps out from time to time when not doing her proper job) I am now liable under the Disability Discrimination Act, which comes into force this October.

So, the DWP has kindly given me three whole months to get my business premises ready or else. If I don't, a disabled person wanting to work for me could take me to an industrial tribunal where "there is no upper limit on the amount of compensation that can be awarded."

This poor person could also go to the Disability Rights Commission, which could drag me into the county court and make me "liable for damages and there is no upper limit to the amount that can be awarded."

If I don't pay up, they can bankrupt me, seize my property, and throw me into jail - simply because I don't want to tear Curmudgeon Corner into little pieces.

To explain, like a growing number of people in the countryside, I work from home. To be exact, my office is in the attic and very useful that is too 'cos I only have to commute 12 steps from our bedroom to work.

But, like many houses built on the side of steep hills in these parts, it is a rather strange shape: it is two storeys at the front and four at the back, if you include the cellar.

To adhere to the rules of the Disability Discrimination Act, I would have to put in a lift which would take out most of the kitchen, half of the biggest bedroom, and leave me pinned against the wall in the attic.

Now don't get me wrong: I have nothing against disabled folk. I give regularly to their charities. But I don't want to employ a disabled person because I don't want to employ anyone: this is strictly a one-man and half-woman business.

Yet some civil servant (or more likely, several civil servants in London and Brussels) sends me blackmail notes because, should a disabled person approach me and ask for a job, I could be ruined because me house-cum-office is not a fit place for he or she to work.

Isn't it enough that I pay these people's grotesquely high salaries, not to mention their index-linked pensions, without them threatening to chop off the hand that feeds them?

It won't happen, of course, cos rather than submit to this sort of protection racket, I would pack it all in and retire. I wonder how many of the tens of thousands of useful people will do the same?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.