I met the editor of the local paper on Friday afternoon. I'd emailed him earlier in the week saying thank you for not publishing the letter I'd sent in then in brackets telling him I'd have thanked him if he had published it - such letters could heal or harm my situation and needed outside judgement.
I asked him how he felt meeting me again. Not sure why, what with no news to report, guess I just like him and anyway, no news is news in a situation like mine.
He said how did Friday sound. I said Friday sounded good.
We went to a cafe where I told him I'd enjoyed the last three issues of his rag. In each there was a political profile; of the Labour contender, the Libdem contender and the Tory contender for the borough elections.
"I've met all three!" I said laughing (laughing?) "I can't say none of them have been successful in helping me because it's with the Libdem's now!"
We were having a good ol' yackety yarn when he suddenly asks me if I want to write a First Person piece for the paper.
"Eh?!" (Surprises always stun me)
"In late May, after the election," he continued.
"Oh gosh, oh well, yes, I guess I could if you want. Gosh, erm..."
He asked me to think about using my own name for it, think about allowing my picture to be taken.
"Oh got to be brave, got to be brave..."
"We'll pay you something for it, we're not going to exploit you," he smiled.
"Oh crikey, oh if you want.." Really stunned by that one but didn't tell him no, it'll upend my benefits. Not telling you no either... I'll cross that financial carnage bridge when I get to it... It would be nice to be paid after all.
I told him I had the germ of an idea to write a piece about the elections, for the nationals, but wasn't sure.
"Great idea," he said and then said if they didn't take it, he would!
You know, I don't know if I thanked him; I certainly didn't pump his hand and gush. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was fear and desire intermingled. Perhaps it was the clash of my positive and negative self given something good to hang on to and my not knowing how to make sense of it now this opportunity was in my hand.
All I know is that me and the ed left on good terms and when Issy called me Saturday and asked 'what's up?' and I told her the local rag had asked me to write a First Person piece, she said: "That's brilliant! That's awesome! I'm so happy for you!"
Sunday afternoon I meet Japanese Mum (who I hadn't told I was in the paper last month, mostly because I rarely run into her) who said: "That's great! That's rearry briyyant!"
Three people therefore believe I am up to this. Stigger's believes I am up to this too. Stiggers is actually relishing the challenge.
Me? I feel like I'm facing the Jabberwocky. Fecking terrified is an understatement. Can I rise up to the challenge?
Well, if Alice can and she's only 19, then for flips sake, I ought to be able to aswell.
"Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice?" Stiggers is asking with Smokie's rasp.
"Stiggers, Stiggers, who the fuck is Stiggers?" (Because I really am beginning to wonder)
"You, you big baffoon."
"Shit means good in youth slang you know"
"Shit Shit Shit!"