I had a beautiful weekend. My son sailed through his confession with a ginormous yawn, I had lunch with my uncle and cousin who've I've not seen for over two years. I met her eight month old baby, a quiet little bundle of smiles.
Back in London I sailed to Bethnal Green in 40 minutes and immersed myself in the good vibes of the Bangladeshi community I'm assisting.
The sky is blue, the air is warm, I can't seem to get rid of Friday's weight.
I got a call from a social worker who said she'd been referred by the council. I said I needed support with housing, she said she couldn't help with that, she wasn't there to support me, she was there to support my son. My son, my son, she kept using his given name, not the name I and everyone else call him by. "Is he happy? Where's his father? Is he doing well at school? The council worker didn't tell me you were being evicted. When? He said your flat was quite cluttered..." On and on. She asked if she could phone my son's school and his GP. I've not heard back.
I also got a letter from my MP who says he's very "sorry", that he's "at a loss how to help me". He included a letter from the council which said I had "insufficient points" and that it had "no control over end date of the lease that Pathmeads Housing Association have in relation to this property."
Bumped into Lucky this morning. Social workers are hounding her case, sorting out access with her daughter's father and not including her in it at all. "Don't go there," she advised me. "Don't go there at all. They don't realise the parent is the first point of support and if you're ok the child will be ok. They just make you feel worse."
Dobbie's given me a link though. "If you are of the view that there is anything more I can do which is likely to help, please do let me know."
He has a surgery a week on Saturday. I'll take my child.
I think what makes thoughts of death so acutely awful in one sense is that the world is looking beautiful under it's blue sky and hot sun. You wonder how it comes beckoning.
I'm wearing my red dress today.
"You look pretty mummy," said my boy this morning.
Like I said, you wonder how the thoughts come beckoning. I'll stop writing about it now. It's just the way things are.