The Press, in a nutshell

I am afraid of the press. Yep. Wouldn't you know it, I was a journalist once and I am afraid of the press.

I tend to be afraid of what I know. I know too much about people's experiences with housing, so being in this housing situation myself frightens the fecking life out of me.

On Monday I was possessed. I was possessed by something, I have decided I was possessed by Stigmum. She who is braver than me, she who couldn't give a flying fairy cake about anything, she who I sometimes have trouble controlling. I had to follow her on Monday, she wanted to go to the press, so to the press we went.

I was there too though. We were 'in it together' so to speak.

I went to the CNJ, the local rag and I asked to speak to the journo I've met before, three or four times, sometimes coincidentally. He I bcc'd the email to the Party Leaders for my charity walk donations.

"I thought it might be you," he said when he came downstairs.

Looking at the word "Anger" on a copy of the paper sitting on the reception desk, I ask him if I can speak to him off the record. He goes to lead me upstairs. "Can we go out?" I ask. "Where noone can hear me?"

There's a coffee shop next door, but I've just come from Cafe Nero. I want to go to the World's End. I feel my world is ending.

"I have a beautiful story for you," I say. "It's curious but even when one is in the eye of a storm, one can still be objective."

I want to buy him a drink but my fingers don't pull out the fiver from my pocket, just a pound and 21 pence but he's already said he'll cover it but I'm like "No me, I've dragged you out."

I have a pint of water. Water water water for my thirst. He buys his own non alcoholic beverage.

He twigs that I'm the phantom letter writer. We laugh about it. Well, it is quite funny.

I tell him that I, me, just me, I have to protect my son. Above all else, I have to protect my son.

You could call it fate, you can call it whatever you like, but as we're sitting there talking, the housing association phones. I can stay where I am, I don't have to move yet.

Relief, for me. I cannot describe the relief. Not relief that he has no story, for he does, he knows who I am now. No, relief that I can deliver the good news to my son that we won't have to move next week.

I tell him that I will write about it, of course I will, but I don't know how. I can't write like a journalist anymore, I can't write like an academic. When Stigmum writes, she cannot be constrained. As you know, if you follow, she has me at my laptop however fucking tired I am if there's something she wants to say.

It was nice talking as one journalist to another. But then I'm not a journalist am I? I'm a single mother on benefits wanting a council flat.

It was nice talking as one writer to another.

I mustn't worry, I am after all, a paid up member of the School of Doris.