My support worker, in a nutshell

I would not want his job. Ever. (Note I do not say I never want his job for I find the old adage 'never say never' to be a true one and what you 'never' want to happen often does. However to upturn what I have just written I have been known to say on occasion: I never want to win the lottery, but then the whole Law of Attraction fucks that up so no wonder I haven't won yet)

He had to speak to me on Monday. Just like I am a conduit for Stigmum, he is a conduit for his managers. I cannot shoot the messenger. I do not want to. Still, the messenger reminded me of what I did not want reminded, because he had no choice and taught me a thing or two that I didn't know before.

When deciding what to do with individual families they look at the "bedroom category and the family composition."

I already know this, I wrote a dissertation after all. You can find this out by going on line and reading the 'allocations' manual.

My son is entitled to his own bedroom. Has been for years. So when my support worker tells me that his managers say that because of my family composition a hostel is "suitable" you might understand why I get a teensy weensy bit angry.

On Monday, he had to deliver the bad news of my impending eviction that luckily isn't going to happen.

The law advice I was given told me to ask the council to place me in a higher priority banding now I had notice of possession. On my mobile I begged my support worker to do this now.

"Priority banding doesn't work like that," he said. "There is no priority bandings for tenancy ends of temporary accommodation."

I went mad; no point in getting angry, not his fault.

Then he said: "There's no going around it now. You've exhausted every avenue. Unfortunately that is the conclusion now."

"No it isn't!" I screamed, calmly. "I haven't been down the avenue of the PRESS!"
"Are you going to do that?" he asked.
"Why not? I've gone to the prime minister, the party leaders, but I haven't gone there. WHY NOT?"

Ohhhhhhhhhh. Years ago when the church evicted me, I was told by my MP "The press won't help you."

They might, I'd thought but did I really want to see my son's beautiful face plastered on the front page of the Mirror? NO.

I don't want the press to help me. I was a journalist once. I DO NOT WANT to be a story.

Monday I was mad though. Or was Stigmum mad? I'd asked her to stay with me after all. I'd asked her to give me strength. I'd been strong, I'd kept my cool with all the conversations I'd had. I hadn't dissolved into tears.

I run into my stigmum friend outside Cafe Nero and I tell her "I'm going to the press. Fuck it, I don't CARE."