On Friday, as I'm writing "the weight of ideas", my support worker phones me. "I haven't heard from you in a long time," I say. He asks me how I am, and as I am in the midst of posting my housing thoughts I say "Not good, I'm tired of being in this situation."
He asks me if I've thought of getting a letter from a doctor, it might help my case. I tell him I missed a psychotherapy assessment two weeks ago. "Why is it, why is it I have to be mad to get housed? Doctors and therapists have written letters, it hasn't helped." I tell the support worker about my history in the private sector. He knows all this. He arranges to come and see me on Thursday.
I missed my second shrink assessment. I got the wrong day. I thought it was a Friday but it was the day before. Perhaps I should call them, make another appointment. At the first assessment she said "We don't know how to help you. How can we help you?" Between you and me, I've had enough of therapy, therapy has had enough of me.
Still I should call. Get them to write another letter. Tell them I'm going to bid at auction if the opportunity arises. I'm not entirely happy about seeing a shrink, particularly if I invite the press and the press come along.
Still I'm not unique. If that's the story they want to focus on, it might just give an idea of the hoops we have to jump through.
Over in Dagenham the waiting list isn't so long apparantly. A report came out last week that only 2% of immigrants get housed, indicating they are not given priority over nationals. The parents interviewed in the news report were already in council flats. The single man they interviewed only waited three months.
I should move to Dagenham you say? I don't know anybody there. There are many reasons why I want to stay here. Why am I justifying myself anyway?
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