The man who came round is not my new support worker. He is a manager who came to ascertain what kind of support I need.
Questions, questions. I couldn't stop crying. Nico Teen was on hand to help but no doing. Not often as a parent you feel the weight of responsibility, so heavy it is. It's easier, day to day, to take little steps; cook what you need to cook, tidy what you need to tidy, clean what you have to clean, soothe what you have to sooth, teach what you have to teach, take child to activity, pick child up.
Then every now and then, the weight of responsibility comes along and kicks you in the stomach. Provide a home for that child, provide stability, provide security. Provide, provide, provide...
"I can see you're not coping," said the man. "I'm worried about your welfare. I can't believe, I mean, I can believe, I don't know why no-one's told you where you're going."
"Because THEY DON'T KNOW." The tears sprayed from my lips. Rolled another cigarette.
He said he wanted to get in touch with social workers. I told him they'd written to me saying they couldn't help.
"I want security," how calm the voice as the tears drop down. "I want a council flat."
"You won't get that but I'll make some enquiries about your case."
Oh I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.