The Leader of the Council wasn't in the Town Hall on Monday his PA told me so I was put through to the woman I spoke to a couple of weeks ago. The Leader of the Council's Lady, for blogging purposes.
She did say, in our final conversation on Monday morning, that she would look into mine and my son's case again. I hope she does.
People can be very nice in the council, you can have decent conversations. I know, I've had plenty, with her included.
She's the one who told me to note down who I spoke to at the HPU and I suddenly felt I had licence in that (personally) awful place to write everything down as it was spoken to me without looking like I would be using it later. I hope this admission doesn't make it difficult for people in the future.
The Leader of the Council can't help, but I knew that was coming, I told you in my 'letting go' post a couple of weeks ago.
People can though say things, speak truths, that in their simplicity, can come as a real blow to someone like me.
"The lease is up, you have to move," she'd said.
"But it's my home and it's Christmas week."
"It's not your home, it's somewhere you rent."
Slap. "It is my home!"
I bump into a stigmum friend outside Cafe Nero and she says: "She's right you know."
The owner of the flat said: "It is your home."
I, I, I wrote a 10,000 word dissertation on families in hostels asking them all "Home Sweet HOME?"
It is my home. I know it's not my home. I want a Home. I WANT. Aaaaaaaaaaaargh I don't want to go maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.
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