It’s been a while since I was held through the night. No longer. Say hello to my little friend.

He’s moved in along with his Brother, GSM Site Monitoring Unit, and Sister Leaflet.

It’s all so stupid, and it’s all my fault.

A while ago I did some paid work while neglecting to tell the Department For Work And Pensions. I knew I wasn’t entitled to the full dole while it was going on, and suspected I could probably have claimed Back To Work Credits, or Working Tax Credits instead, or a bit of a both. But I did nothing.

Why? Sheer depressive ineptitude. On top of which – my therapist thinks – there’s a dark, childish part of me that wanted to get into trouble. In a rather cowardly, pathetic, defaulter’s way. No action needed. A sin of omission. A cry for help. Society will come to me. And it will hold onto me. I walk through this world in a dream stance. Finally, I have physical proof it exists.

Certainly it wasn’t an attempt to knowingly defraud the system to my own advantage. I’m stupid, but not THAT stupid. While working, I was paying proper tax on the wages, and even I knew that this would show up against my NI number on the government computers. Then they’d sort things out for me, I assumed. They’ll work it out, and I’ll probably have to pay back an overpayment. I can’t think straight enough to sort out my benefits, said the depression, but they will.  They’ll take care of it.

Except by that time I’d run up an overpayment of more than £2000. And it turns out the DWP instantly prosecutes for debts above this amount, even when they’re being paid back.

Which is why this Wednesday I found myself in the City Of Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Horseferry Road, with a legal aid lawyer, pleading guilty to inadvertent benefit fraud.

I didn’t think it’d go as far as an actual punishment. It’s my first ever time in trouble with the law, at the age of 38. I was rather hoping for a conditional discharge, a caution, a fine, and a stern instruction to sort my life out.

To help my case, I provided the court with letters proving a history of clinical depression, for which I’m currently undergoing treatment. A letter from a mental health advocate from the charity Mind. A prescription of 20mg Citalopram daily. An hour with an NHS therapist every Wednesday morning. A certificate from the Expert Patient Programme which I went on earlier this year, which provides help and training in managing one’s long-term illnesses. Regular meetings with a supervisor from the NHS Working For Health programme, who specialises in finding jobs for people like me. She also ensures I’m claiming the right benefits at the right time. From now on.

Added to which, I was already paying back the overpayment. And I was contrite, I was sorry, I was showing remorse (just try and stop me), I was of ‘previously good character’, and I was pleading guilty. All of which pleased the magistrates. But, they said, the amount of the debt still meant a conviction with punishment. No exceptions.

Unpaid community work wasn’t an option, as I’d proven myself to be (a) rather bad at holding down regular work of any kind, and (b) clearly a fragile, child-like, sociopathic sort that makes darts pause in mid-flight. In fact, a tagged curfew was the most lenient option they could give me. The litter patrol was the next step up.

I’d gotten off lightly, they said. You’re lucky. You won’t hear from us again. Just stick to the curfew and it’ll be over. Well, except for the small matter of acquiring a criminal record. But, they assured me, it’s a statutory offence, not a dishonest one. That distinction should make things easier when applying for work, or getting into foreign countries. In theory.

They also fined me £100 for legal costs. And I still have to pay back all of the overpayment.

Last night, at quarter to midnight, a woman from a security firm wearing crime-scene forensic gloves came round to fit the tag. It’s waterproof, so I can bathe and shower in it. I just have to be at home from 9pm to 6am every night from now till August 25th.

I’m fine. Just angry with myself. And unbelievably sorry. I’m sorry to the authorities and the lawyers for taking up their time with this pettiness. I’m sorry to my loving and endlessly supportive parents for putting them through it too. And I’m sorry to the performers, staff and audience at my club night next Weds, who are now going to have to manage without the host and promoter. More of which in the next entry.

The security firm has me down as ‘Richards Edwards’ (sic). Somehow, that’s the most annoying aspect.