Playing catch with court orders.

Bailiff's Order from the London County Courts, due any time soon.
Parental Responsibility Order from Brighton County Courts. Due to appear 17th August.

This is the shit I am juggling.

I need to catch something positive. I need to.

I'm going to go out and get fucked again tonight like I did last night. Then no more Al Cohol, OK?
No more. I can't let you destroy me too.

I need a clear head to catch the good things that will come. They have to.

I'm going to pray. There is nothing more that I can do.

My son my sun, my boy my buoy, I love you.

"The Friends"

When the Foca came to get our son (3 hours late) yesterday I told him I had planned to give him a birthday card about 'friends' but after seven years, I had finally opened my eyes.

That whenever we seem to be getting on, he sabotages it by being cruel. So now, no more. I had finished with my desire to one day being friends with him.

He said not to talk about this infront of our son, I said I was going to talk about it no more, I'd said all I had to say on the matter.

Today I have received a court order from Brighton County Court asking me to appear on August 17th to sign the parental responsibility order.

That little piece of "paper" that he feels he's "failing as a father" without.

Has he forgotten that I am his son's mother? That I am awaiting a bailiff's order from the London County Court? That he was the first to hand us notice and render us homeless?

"How does this effect my rights as a father?" he'd said at the time.
"You don't have any," I'd answered.
"Yes I do."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"No you don't, I thought you knew."

My son's in Ireland now with him. He'd asked if he could take him and I'd said 'sure, when do you want?'. Last two weeks of August he'd said. OK. Then he changed his mind and said now and I'd said 'OK'. Nice way to thank me don't you think?

The card I was foolishly going to give him before his text arrived last monday, was an Edward Monkton one. This was behind my rage on Monday. That I've been a total idiot believing in the guy.

"THE FRIENDS can connect in a mysterious way without even thinking.
Perhaps they have AMAZING MAGICAL POWERS.
Perhaps they are both just PECULIAR IN THE HEAD."

I'm positively peculiar. I've no idea what he is. We are not, we will never, be friends.

I let go of any creeping guilt about having posted about him this past year and a half.

I can't talk to my friends about him. Words simply fail me.

"The housing division won't like it"

Took my son to the Crown and Goose for a drink.

Saw friendly bar men who remember me, showed them my letter.

"Did you do it anonymously?" one asked. I shook my head. He looked at me wide eyed.

"What do you think the council will make of it?" Silly question, silly, from me.

I can't repeat what he said, I've told you once, I cannot think that way.

Ah fuck it! What's done is done!

Took my son to see Karate Kid.

Perfect!

Go see!!

Goddess

The local newsagent doesn't always carry copies of the CNJ but it did today!

I grabbed a copy and went straight next door to the hairdresser, to he who started the whole empty fruit bowl thing.

The last time I hoped the CNJ published my letter I did the same thing (only I got the copy on the main road that time), sat myself down and for some unknown reason was unable to turn the paper's page, it was so heavy!

I'd had to get supermario to open it and my goodness, he'd held the paper aloft with both hands and turned it page by page so slowly! The suspense near killed me!

Oh how far I've come! Today I opened the paper myself! Headed straight to the letter's section prepared to scan each page for my name.

No need!

A great big massive headline in the centre right hand page! That tune from Feeder's Feeling A Moment whizzing through my ears! My own copy swimming before my eyes!

Thank you CNJ! Thank you Journo Guy!

(Goddess is the name of the salon)

Heading off to get the local paper

What's that coming over the hill
Is it your mummy, is it your mummeeeee?
What's that coming over the hill...

"Stop singing mummy, stop!"

What's that coming over the hill

"Mummy stop, you can't sing. In my diary I wrote the worst singer in the world is you!"

I high fived my son.

(The Automatic featuring Stigmum)

666

My shopping at the local Mini Mart yesterday came to £6.66. I didn't notice.

"Look!" said Mini Mart Man. "666. Your food comes to 666, that's the devil's number!"
"Oh yeah," I replied, my head somewhere else completely.
"The devil's number, that's bad, shall I add a penny so it's £6.67?"
"No thanks."
"But it's bad, it's a bad number, the devil, you know!"
"It's not a bad number," I said. "I have an angel numbers book at home and every single number has a positive meaning in it. I bet 666 does!"
"No, it won't, it can't! It belongs to the devil!"
"It will have it and what I'll do is read what it means then come back and tell you tomorrow."

I have to admit, I was very curious indeed and more so knowing that my letter might appear in the local rag this morning.

666 people, here it is and a very nice thing to read the eve of the loss of anonymity...

Its time to focus on Spirit to balance and heal your life. Tell Heaven about any fears you have concerning material supply. Be open to receiving help and love from both humans and the angels. (Angel Numbers, Doreen Virtue Phd and Lynnette Brown)

My son copied it out and we gave it to Mini Mart Man this afternoon.

"You believe this kind of stuff?" he says incredulous.
I was quite incredulous myself.
"The way I see it, right now, my life is... well, I can choose to think negatively or I can choose to think positively. This book helps me."
"What is this book?" looking at my copy. "Do you think it works?"
"I don't know, flip, I've got to believe it, I'm wanting pigs to fly!"
"Pigs fly?" he laughs. "You don't believe that do you? Pigs don't fly!" and he flapped his arms. "They can't!"
I laughed back, "I don't know but I'll tell you if they do!"

And with that I left.

Tut tut....

Hmmm, long explanatory post about today's call from the social worker. Yes, she called! Coincidence eh?!

Asking my son after the weekend what kind of conversations he had with his dad, the boy replied that all his dad wanted to know about was Kay.

"Kay?" Who the feck is Kay?

"The woman who came to our house mummy and asked if I liked school."

"Oh her, what's he been saying?"

"He keeps asking me about her and I keep saying I don't want to talk about it."

"She didn't say that much did she? Why's he asking you?" And we moved on to different conversations.

Yesterday when New Support Worker was round, I mentioned that his manager had called the social services who'd come round, asked my son if he liked school, told me to get him ready to leave it, so the fact that she'd said she'd call "tomorrow" and didn't was pretty welcome actually; I had no indication she was acting in the best interests of my child.

Today I'm chatting with Manny (his word! He's a male nanny to my son's friend) and because the eviction is right at the top end of my frontal labotamy at the moment, it doesn't take me long to start talking about it. Shit, in the end, I find myself giving him a detailed history.

"The last time I was evicted I had a small army. I had a shrink, a doctor, a social worker, a councillor, a priest and they still shoved us in a hostel. This time I'm on my own. No shrink, no doctor, the social worker's bailed, no councillor has gone out on a limb for us and it's not a church evicting us." Trying to be positive I said: "Maybe I have a couple of local papers but that's for something different."

I'm chatting to him about the Foca, his text and the Foca's conversation with my son about the social worker when my phone rings with "withheld" on it. I'm hoping it's the council inviting me to view a property in the morning.

"Hi Sue it's Kay."
"Oh hi Kay." To think, prior my son talking about it I'd forgotten who the hell she was.
"I was wondering if I could come and see you at some point."
"Er maybe. You told me you were going to call me "tomorrow" a month ago, what happened?"
"I called you. I left a message on your phone."
"Did you?" Quite stunned. "What phone did you leave it on? My landline or my mobile?"
"Your mobile, it's the only number I have for you."
"I didn't get a call on my mobile or a message."
"That's odd, I did leave one."
"Did you really? I don't think so."
"Will you be in if I come on Monday..."

I couldn't fucking believe it. Why couldn't she say she forgot? Why couldn't she say New Support Worker called her, or whatever happened for her to call me?

She is the professional, I am the parasite, if I complained no-one would believe me. Thank goodness Manny was with me, vouch for me as I tell you, crikey.

I'll tell you what though, I've not told my son she's coming, he'll be away when she does.

I'm certainly not telling the Foca about her, but I might tell her about him.

Will she help me and my child second time round?

Oh and I'm still rubbish at picking up messages on my landline so if this was a quiz....

It's not a quiz though is it? It's our lives...

It's not funny.....

There's a part of me so excited about the CNJ publishing my letter.
I'm like, YES! At last! Someone has spoken! Go Girl!!!!!

The other part of me is fecking terrified.
Who in their right mind would write something when their life is in such a vulnerable situation and they need to stay on the right side of the system designed to help them?

Stiggers is laughing.

Wishin' and hopin'

I do not wish to stop breathing like...
I hope I do not stop breathing like..

There is a difference, isn't there?

I emailed Journo Guy asking him to change it for me if they published my letter.

Oh I dunno!

Tell you what though, I'm wishing and I'm hoping they publish it and while I'm at it, I may as well shove a little prayer in there too!

New support worker isn't dead!

My new support worker called me yesterday afternoon. "Where are you? I'm standing outside your block. I sent you a letter at No 44 but there's no answer."
"That's because I don't live there..."

He didn't come last week because he forgot.

I offered him a cup of tea which is what I do when people come round, and he accepted.

It didn't take long for my heckles to rise while we were talking, mainly because he was talking over me and what he was talking over me about was the borough's housing crisis, like I don't know there is one. rrrrah.

I was so exasperated I showed him the article I wrote in the local paper a couple of weeks ago, opened it up on the page.

"Where.... oh, it's quite a big one."

I hung out the window with Nico Teen while he took it in.

Things took a turn for the better after that. He couldn't believe my lease ends next week and I've been told diddly squat about where we're going, never mind when.

He put a call in to the council.

"..... and she's so angry she's written an article in the Ham & High!"

Oh my gosh, I wanted to laugh, but it's not funny is it stiggers.... I didn't tell him I might have one coming in the Camden New Journal but that's because I don't know for sure. Bit more scathing of council policies that one..... and no, I didn't tell him about you stiggers and our blogspot cave...I dread to think what they'd do to me if they found out about that....

The council said they'd heard nothing from the housing association and suggested he called there.

He rang Pathmeads who said I wasn't on their system!! I'd say 'who'd adam and eve it?!' but that's what they told me at Christmas about my possession order until the Property Owner called them so I believe it.

My bailiff's order is still with the courts, no-one knows when it's coming but when it does I have "two to three weeks" to get out.

"That's not much," I said. "They've known about me for over a year and a half and they're going to treat me like a fucking emergency."

He talked about the new difficulty with the private rental scheme now the government has cut benefits.. Landlords might not be prepared to take the homeless at a reduced rate.

"They'll look at what's available but probably put you in a family hostel."

I flew into my psychotic rage, said I had on paper that I would be given a two bed temporary flat. Thing is, and I didn't say this to him, I don't have on paper that they'll aim to keep my son in his school. I told him I'd bid on four properties this week. Four. In This Area.

We were talking over a fence. He on one side saying there were hundreds of people waiting, one family for 13 years but then said they were spanish and so I told him everyone was entitled but I was hacked off because of all the hundreds of people who had gone before us.

Never mind green grass, it's a question of perspective and he understood mine as well as I understood his.

I often have good conversations with people in the council but it never helps my son. He asked me how my boy was doing at school and I read out his report.

He said he would see what he could do. It's all I needed to hear. Well, actually, not quite...

As he left I said: "Tell the council my flat was really tidy today!"

He said: "It's none of my business."

Oh mate, thank you for saying that!"

Good job my son and I were home when he called and not in the Maldives, we'd have been struck off the register. When he did call my son was in the bedroom playing on his psp and I'd passed out on the sofa, sleeping. I was dreaming of David Cameron! I know! Nothing oooer. In the dream we were shaking hands!

I have to keep dreaming.

Getting fucked

My son's going to Ireland with his dad this Friday for eleven days. He'll be away when the lease ends. Good thing maybe but I wish he wasn't.

I have to deal with all the fear and uncertainty with little to take my mind off it.

I'm going to get totally fucked. I'm going to get totally fucked every which way with Al Cohol, like I did at the weekend without my boy.

I've got dozens upon dozens of anti depressant drugs stockpiled in my cupboard and a bottle of vodka in the freezer. So easy. So so easy.

Photos of my son are everywhere, pictures he's drawn on every wall.

My son, my sun, my boy, my buoy, my chink of light in this dark, dark hole.

Don't lose faith, stiggers is saying

Do Not Lose Faith

What the Foca thinks of our eviction

Text: This morning

I am applying for
Parental
Responsibility
because even though
requested continually
throughout the last
few years, we have
been unable to
achieve a personal
agreement. Your
current situation
appears to be
somewhat more
precarious than
before. And so I
believe that if I were
not in a position to
help [our son], if ever
required, due to the
lack of a piece of
paper, I would have
failed as his father.
This will only legally
confirm what is
already well
established as
normal. I have
absolutely no desire
to put you under any
undue pressure but
feel your current
circumstances
necessitate this
course of action.
Happy to talk about
this away from
[our son's] earshot when
ever you wish.

He told me what he was planning as he dropped off our son this morning and I said: "Why do you always do this? When you know I'm in a shit situation you just make it worse. Can't it wait until we're rehoused?"

He walked off and then I got his text.

I couldn't hide my fury and my pain from my child who began to cry.

I am such a fucking idiot. A month ago I told the foca a social worker was coming round. I told the foca I was published in the local paper.

So, all you lovely friends who asked me this weekend what he thought of the eviction, well here's your answer.

I didn't respond to his text and I'm not going to.

Tosser.

The Oxford

Thursday - last day of term. Gifts for teachers all bought I thought I'd stop by The Oxford on Kentish Town Road and have an orange juice and lemonade.

Thing is, they sell my favourite beer there - Budvar, Budweiser's far superior brother. I treated myself.

I sat on a bench and thought how little separates me from some of those cabinet ministers.
They went to Oxford, I went to Cambridge (ahem, poly)
They went to public school, I'm a public school dropout.

As I sat musing I saw Hannah; she in the same situation as me. Her property owner said her family could stay in their property and a meeting was had with her, Pathmead's and the council and it was all agreed. However, the housing officer (who is also mine - "I know you think he's nice sue but he's not, he's a slime ball") didn't tell Pathmead's about the new arrangement and Hannah and her husband received their bailiff's order. A whole stressful week ensued and the family got a reprieve the day before bailiff's day. I have no reprieve of course, my property owner wants shot of me, the "council's problem".

The interchange had me hurtling from La La Land to Deep Space Shite in seconds. I went to my local newsagents and bought four bottles of Budvar so that I might have company that evening.

Little separates me from some of those cabinet ministers indeed, except a gulf wider than the Grand Canyon.

Drink to that?

EPIC steps

Sent: 7/22/10
To: Journo Guy
Subject: Can a girl change her mind...?

Hi [Journo Guy],

The other day you gave me the opportunity to write something for your paper and I said no. Then [Mr R & Mr B] (letters 15 july) gave me an idea. They wrote an open letter to the government, I could do one of those as well....

The story is better told this side of the eviction. When I'm rehoused I'll either feel defeated or if pigs do fly will be flying up there in la la land with them so grateful to the council.

It's a bit longer than the letters I usually send you so feel free to edit.

I wish it was Sue's name on it but hey, there was a banner hanging between some trees when I cycled to parliament last week saying "BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE" so I guess it should be mine (and at this point I start singing along to the Ting Tings!!)

Let me know if the CNJ takes it, so I can brace myself!!!!

You have all my details don't you?

Thanks for the opportunity

All the best

I was listening to CD 3 of my EPIC - The bands, The tracks, The Anthems album as I wrote it.

New Order - True Faith
Depeche Mode- Personal Jesus

I sent it just as James was singing "Sit Down" and flip I flipping had to. My head was so lightheaded, my legs were trembling so much I couldn't stand but what was truly extraordinary for me, was that it wasn't fear coursing through me, it was desire!

Desire that some good might come of it.

I floated to Angel to a shop called JOY and bought gifts for my son's teachers. My soul was filled with hope! Oh Stiggers, I hope they do!!

I do like Allocations

Allocations got back to my email about my new support worker. Here's our ping pong and I'll keep you posted. I'm really grateful she got back to me so quickly....

Hello Ms de Nim

Thank you for your email, I was out of the office attending a meeting. Can you advise whether [your new support worker] arrived for housing plan interview?

Regards

Allocations

No he didn't come, hasn't called and I've gone from being angry about it to a bit worried (a man committed suicide off my block the other week, our resident alcoholic got run over and killed and a man who lives above my neighbour was found dead in his flat after lying there for weeks so there's been a bit too much death death death for me recently)Please let me know if he's alright.
Thanks,
Sue

Dear Ms de Nim

Thank you for your response. I am trying to find out what happened and will let you know.

Regards

Allocations

Martha, Mary and the Human Robot

I emailed allocations to say my new support worker didn't turn up. OK, I'm a bit of a tell tale tit but for good reason. That housing plan interview doesn't take place and I'm suspended off the housing register.

A bit freaky though - a woman outside supermario's hairdresser yesterday said she'd say a prayer for me that when he did turn up he wouldn't judge me.

I hope he's alright, no nasty accidents befallen him....

I was going to tell him the story of Martha and Mary if he did comment on the mess, say I was Mary.

Do you know that story? Jesus goes round to their house and while Martha's busying herself with everything she needs to do, Mary's just sitting at the Lord's feet listening to what he's saying and well, Martha gets a bit pissed off.
"'Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.'
"But the Lord answered her, 'Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is a need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken from her." (Luke 10.38-42)

On Sunday my son and I went to mass at the 'other' School, like he'd asked a month ago. The priest said it was ok to come, he didn't want to 'poach' us from the our usual School though.

While he was reading the Gospel a young man passed out and hit his head on the pew. The priest stared at me but then, I was standing right next to him, so mustn't be too freaked out by that.

That School gives print outs of the readings so you don't doze off in the service, you can read along. That's the coincidence I saw in reading it to the council's human robot.

Now that woman's prayer for me yesterday that I wouldn't be judged today?

I hope you're alright Mr Support Worker. I'm sure you are and there's a very reasonable explanation for your no show, like you forgot or another 'client' kept you busy.

Let me know, yeah?

Doh - seems I'm wrong

Hello Ms de Nim

The bidding cycle opens on Thursday – tomorrow. You will be able to bid tomorrow
Regards

Thank you. My head is obviously somewhere else. I hope it is as you say and I will get 'lucky', not the laughs I got from others in the department asking why do I even bother or to bid even though I will be unsuccessful.
Regards
Sue

She may email me back saying what I say isn't true but I will email back and say it is, because it is.

Seems I've been suspended from the housing register...

I've just gone into the site for the pointless exercise of bidding for a flat and it's saying No Records Found.

Hasty email sent therefore:

Dear [Allocations],
I have just been into the homeconnections site to bid on a property and it says 'No Active Records Found'. Could you please tell me what's going on?
Like I said I called the HHSS at the number stated on the letter. The council tells me to 'keep bidding' so why has it pulled my family off?
I'd be grateful if you could let me know.
Kind regards
Sue de Nim

Destinations

I go from flying in La La Land to sinking in Deep Space Shite

It's a turbulent journey, I can't control it.

Whitehall? We have a problem. Do you read me Whitehall?

Whitehall? Whitehall? Whitehall?

My son's school report

Got it on Monday. It was brilliant! It was amazing! I am so proud of my little boy!!

He came "Above expected level for year group" for everything except Music (oh my son!) and Religious Education (not much of a Sunday School teacher was I my sweet!), but then again, for those he came "At expected level for year group" so all in all, the best bloody report I've ever read, including my own at that age!!!

His teacher wrote that he has "a secure circle of friends and makes creative choices during our play sessions. I wish [him] continued success and happiness in the future."

Al Cohol anesthetized my fear while I drank my tears.
Don't move us far from his school

Waiting for Boris at the GLC (19/7/2010)

When one's heart is racing
against time you're pacing
sat on your bum waiting
Don't take a double shot
He'll think you've lost the plot
but then again
Fuck it!

I did not get to see the renegade Tory. He does alot for housing and I wanted him to have a quiet word with his mate Dave about a certain £283 million. Oh well, win some lose some.
Thing is, when I got home, I hit a MASSIVE DOWNER. Castigated myself for being such an idiot - what was I thinking going to see him??? He can't help my child.

I swear, Al Cohol is a really good mate at times like these...

The Game (with Will Young and my symbolic husband)

Saturday night, my Mr Advice Man texts saying he's got two spares for the Will Young concert at Kenwood House, do I want them?

Do I want them??!

To be honest I was feeling a bit tired but my son, my son was jumping at the bit to go!! So thank you Mr Advice Man and thank you my son!!!!!!!!!!! The concert was amazing, Will Young has the most incredible voice, it really doesn't matter that I couldn't see him!!

I didn't realise Stiggers was with us until young Will sang his famous song, The Game....

I see you floating it constantly
You're making me feel like you and I could be real
But then you're flipping the game
You walk away and turn your back baby
Stop treading on me baby
Cos I'm mystified
And you know I've tried I just can't get through to you

Chorus
What you gonna do
I don't know
What you gonna say
I ain't sure
Always the same
All the time
Every day
Played my mind
I can't keep wasting my time on your game

(The State's not my baby Stiggers, I just want to make that clear, but twould be nice indeed, so nice indeed if its housing policies for real babies, real children, weren't quite so punitive....
here here hear hear)

Stone the crows!

I was listening to the Stone Roses album... I don't need to sell my soul, it's already in me la la la and popped into my inbox to see if I had an email from a friend of mine who's in a band.

Her hair
Soft drifted snow
Death white I'd like to know
Why she hates
All that she does
But she gives it all that she's got

An email from The Ed. Ooh what's that about? He sent it Thursday night, I was about to pop off to parliament on a reccy...

Until the sky turns green
The grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue
Until the sky turns green
And the grass is several shades of blue
Every member of parliament trips on glue (Sugar Spun Sister)

Oh my gosh!! He's published my article!!! In the space ordinarily reserved for MPs!!!!!!!
Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!

I am the resurrection
And I am the light
I couldn't ever bring myself to hate you as I like

That's Ian Brown not us ey Stiggers?
Of course you daft brush!

Stone the crows is "an expression of incredulity or annoyance" (phrases.org.uk)

Incredulity!! Incredulity!!

Thanks Ed! Thanks so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cycling to parliament - a song

“If only I could have a guardian angel, tell me what to do” (Grease)

Your story's sad to tell, a teenage ne'er-do-well
Most mixed up non-delinquent on the block
Your future's so unclear now, what's left of your career now
Can't even get a trade-in on your smile

Boarding school drop-out, what did you do to get kicked out?
Boarding school drop-out, did you scream and did you shout?
Fags beyond the corridors and whisky in the showers
caught by prowling member staff
Who oofed you with their powers

Baby get moving (better get moving),
Must keep your feeble hopes alive
What are you proving (what am I proving)?
You've got the dream, must find the drive
If you get to meet ol’ Cameron, you mustn’t be afraid
Turn in your memories and leave your boarding school

Boarding school drop-out, hangin' around the liquor store
Boarding school drop-out, it's about time I knew the score
Well they couldn't teach me anything,
They threw me in a locker
One or two of them would come to me,
point, scorn and say “now dock her”

Baby don't sweat it (don't sweat it),
It was all so long ago
Better forget it (forget it), these are heavy memories to tow
Now your hair is curled, your lashes twirled, and still the world is cruel
Paint on that angel face and leave your boarding school

Baby don't blow it, don't put my good advice to shame
Baby you know it, even the priests now say the same
Now I've called the shot, get off the pot, I really gotta fly
Gotta be goin' to that La Land in the sky

Boarding school drop-out, go to the Commons
Boarding school drop-out, go to the Commons
Boarding school drop-out, go to the Commons

(Frankie Avalon featuring Stigmum and me)

The Commons don't meet on a Friday, for that was the day I went. A policeman told me I would never meet the Prime Minister and I said: "Do you mind if I don't believe you?"

Raol Moat

Raol Moat asked for help, didn't get it, so shot three people then shot himself.
I asked for help, didn't get it, so sent a postcard....

Email ping pong punch

Earlier I sent an email to allocations saying I'd not heard from my new support worker. Coincidence given he called me an hour or so later....
Below is our email ping pong starting with her response and it was quite long so omitting stuff about the support service. In brackets is what I did not have the energy or will to fight about.


As explained previously the owner of your current temporary accommodation is not renewing the lease as they want the property back and so this means that Pathmeads will continue the process of regaining possession of the property and we will continue to identify alternative temporary accommodation for you and your son. (No mention that the lease also ends between the council and the housing association. Over the past 5 years I don't know how many letters I've had from the council saying it's about to end)

Whilst I understand your wish to be more points, there is no intention to award additional points to your application for housing. (Not for vulnerability, overcrowding, instability, anything)

We have had a number of cases where our homeless households have had to be found alternative housing because the lease on their housing association temporary accommodation has come to an end and the lease not renewed and in those cases we have been able to assist those families through further temporary accommodation or private sector housing, without awarding extra points. (Only 30 of us are being evicted through housing association/council lease ends. You'd think they'd make some kind of exception but no, we're homeless, we're nobody)

Our Allocations Scheme does not award extra points because temporary accommodation is being lost.

I hope in my previous emails that I have tried to assure you that the Housing Department has not placed any restrictions against your housing application and you are being treated the same as all applicants – tenants, homeless and other applicants who require housing. (I don't think so, or do you ignore all medical letters? All letters from a child's school? How do you explain all those I've met or seen on the register who have gone before us?)

It is unfortunate that the demand for housing in Camden far outstrips the supply and this does mean a lengthy wait for many of those registered for housing. But this situation is not unique to Camden but many other London boroughs also face the same problem with the demand for housing.

Dear [Allocations],

[My new support worker] phoned me after I sent you that email so thank you very much.

The council has a record of every letter and email I have sent on behalf of my child, so I hope it acts in his best interests when the time comes and all the leases collapse beneath us.

I'm also very aware there is a crisis in Camden, despite many families being housed before us who have waited less time. I have written to the Prime Minister and his Deputy asking if they could return the £283 million allocated funds for housing to the borough so that repairs can be done on all those empty properties so that fewer families go through what mine is currently going through. I put my return address as 'care of' Frank Dobson, the Miliband brothers and coalition members living in the borough, at the House of Commons, because obviously I do not know where I'll be living when the money comes. I also hope they care enough about the borough to do something.

Thanks for getting back to me.

Regards

Sue de Nim

(I don't understand that the allocations scheme doesn't award extra points because 'temporary accommodation is being lost'. What difference does that make?)

Hello Ms de Nim,

In terms of the Allocations Scheme, it means if it is not mentioned in the Scheme, we can’t do it. Therefore the Allocations Scheme makes not mention of awarding additional points for the loss of temporary accommodation, so therefore we cannot award additional points.

I hope that explains matters for you.

Regards

Thanks for the explanation. That has to change doesn't it for how many times must a child like mine, with a mother on her own, face eviction after eviction after eviction, witness his parent's incapability of coping with it? You don't have to answer that because I don't want to know.

Human pain

I can't stop crying
A balm

Human robots

My new support worker just called.
This new 'change of support' is a government policy he said.
The lease end on my property isn't to do with me personally he said.
He said I could go and seek legal advice if I felt I'd been unjustly treated by the procedure.
He's fond of talking over me.
All I could hear when he was telling me the council had a duty of care and would place me in "suitable" accommodation was a piercing scream in my ear.
I had to put the phone down but not before I said I would see him next Wednesday because he has to do that, whether I want to do it or not, "in order for your case to stay live."

Who knows, he might be ok, a good guy, but he's not my old support worker and is going to rehash everything everyone has ever told me and upset me more than anyone ever has before.

He can't help you see. No-one can help me help my child.

Where am I going to? A song

I don’t know where I’m going to
I don’t like the things that life is showing me
Where am I going to?
I don’t know

Will I get what I’m hoping for?
When I look behind me there's no open door
What am I hoping for?
Do you know?

Once I was standing still in time
Chasing the fantasies that filled my mind
My life so loathed me, but my spirit was free
Probing all the questions that my life threw at me

I don’t know where I’m going to
I don’t like the things that life is showing me
Where am I going to?
I don't know

Now, looking back at all my past
I've let so many dreams just slip through my hands
Why must I wait so long before I see
How right the answers to those questions can be?

I don’t know where I’m going to
I don’t like the things that life is throwing me
Where am I going to?
I don’t know

Will I get what I’m hoping for?
When I look behind me there's no open door
What am I hoping for?
Do you know?

(Diana Ross featuring Stigmum)
Thanks stiggers for swapping 'sad' for 'right'
You've got to stay positive sweetie

Wednesday wake up feeling

In the pit of my stomach there is fear. Heavy, weighty, fear.
My mind is in la-la land where creativity resides
A stone sits in my throat and I cannot swallow it
That must be fear travelling upwards and getting lodged so I can't voice it.

August 5th the lease ends. August. August 2010.

I have heard nothing from no-one.
Not the housing association
Not the council
Not my new support worker
I have heard nothing from no-one
Apart from my old support worker texting saying:
Any luck?

Emotional

Sunday night I re-read the CNJ's letters page; mine sitting with a man's calling for an end to right wing policies in the Labour party and another from a woman from Camden Defend Council Housing saying Miliband not knowing about the borough's housing crisis "is nothing less than scandalous!"

A public meeting was being held Monday night, the woman stated, to defend our public services. I read it thinking I couldn't go. I read it thinking 'shit'. I read it thinking that perhaps I ought to write a letter to my MP instead.

I'd arranged to meet Billie at midday the next day. There was my deadline. I wouldn't have written it without that. Sometimes you think something's really pointless and I was pretty nervous and scared as well.

I posted it 'signed for' at the local post office. Terror in my heart? No, what an anti climax! My mind entered a hope bubble.

Billie didn't show up but Jo works just around the corner from our meeting place. She came to meet me and we walked up and down Camden High Street because she's got a bad back.

She said she felt a bit cynical about my letter, but how was I? She was worried about me. What was I going to do when I was evicted? Where was I going to go? What was I going to do about my son's schooling?

My head was still in my hope bubble, her questions barely hit the sides.

Afterwards I was wheeling Zat, thinking I was busting for a pee, when I ran into Ceci, my Participatory Appraisal companion.

"Sue, where have you been I've not seen you for so long!"
"Oh here and there."
"I've been wanting to talk to you about teaching english to the Portuguese community."

My hope bubble burst.

"Ceci, I can't be thinking about that right now. Me and my son are about to be evicted. The lease ends in August. August for fucks sake, that's right here, fuck, in a few weeks."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't fucking know."
She fielded questions.
No you can't help me, you've already tried. No, the local councillor can't help me. No, the law centre can't help me I tried, I'm "not exceptional", there is no legal aid for "complex issues like homelessness". I know it's unfair, the whole fucking lot is unfair and there is nothing I or anyone else can do about it.

She let me go and I went into the World's End for half an orange juice and lemonade and my much needed pee.

There's no time. There's no time left.

When I got home I emailed Dobbie's letter to the Journo Guy. I dunno, just so he knew I was onto the £283 million.

Then a curious thing happened.

I cried.

T and P is in TyPing

Dear Frank Dobson,

By now my postcard asking for the £283 million allocated funds for housing to be returned to the Borough of Camden should have arrived at Number 10.

On it I put my postal address as ‘Care Of’ you, the Miliband brothers, and members of the coalition who live in the borough for you all have a connection to it. I realise now that is a lot of people and I may not get a response.

When the House of Commons next meets, could you do me a favour, as my MP, and ask the Leaders of the Coalition if they received it? I would ask them myself but I don’t have your kind of access to them.

I know I risk being held up to ridicule and I accept that without condoning it.

Please do this for me Mr Dobson, in memory of Jennyfer Spencer and for the future of the borough as a whole. One death is enough, no?

Thank you very much.

Yours sincerely,

Sue de Nim

Horoscopes spot on?

Your home life might have been a little trying and testing over the past – er – long while! But hopefully you have learned a ton of lessons about how to handle it all and things are starting to feel less like an on-going battle you have to wage day after day after day. If you’ve mastered some of the issues which needed mastering with the people closest to you, what happens today should be rather lovely. For some, there will be a spark which gets re-ignited. For others, there is good financial news connected to the home. (Closer Online Astrology)

Prior to reading this I've:
Written a letter to my MP asking him to ask the Coalition if they've received my postcard
Written an article for the local paper who carried the story of me and Nick Clegg in February

I don't know if either will be accepted or effective so I've just got to be a bit Doris about it.

Tidy up or have a rest now? Physical energy somewhat low as the mental one simply won't slow down...

Housing Plan Interviews

I've had two a year for six years. Seven years ago you got 25 points for attending. You get fuck all for attending now apart from a punishment if you don't.

Dear Ms de Nim,

Housing Plan interview

You are due to have a Housing Plan interview between 1/7/2010 and 14/7/2010 our Support Officer is: Not allocated. Please contact your support worker to arrange a home visit by mobile phone or alternatively, contact the Homeless Households Support Service office.

Please note: It is important that you attend your Housing Plan interview. Failure to do so may result in your housing application being suspended.

Hmmm, they suspended my housing application a few years ago after I had attended a meeting.
I know what this system is like, which I told the woman on the other end of the phone when I called the HHSS yesterday after she said I was "proactive".

Oh, I haven't told you have I?
The social worker who said she'd call "tomorrow" two weeks ago? She hasn't called.
The new support worker I was told I'd get three weeks ago and was told would be in touch last week? Haven't heard hide nor hair.

They suspend my application, I'll be fucking furious.

Back to reality

I am loathe to start blogging about my life again.

Holidays are such sweet rest!

Holidays with Seven Wild Women is soul food on a silver platter!

Thanks Em, for inviting me to your Phwoartieth!

P is in sPelling!

Pomegranite is actually spelt pomegranate.
I bought a juice at Pret a Manger and a sandwich with proscuitto ham in it.
But that's not when I realised I've been spelling it wrong all this time!

Cambridge

"Shopping!"
Cambridge has a plethora of shops and shopping centres.
"Em, you know I said last night that I wasn't in the frame of mind for retail therapy? Well I think I've just stepped into it!"

I bought flat black shoes in the sales to go out in that night. When Hazel said she was accessorizing, I thought 'that's a good idea!' and bought a hair grip with a red rose on it and a red bag to match. I splurged out on a lip gloss too. Well, a girl can't go out with naked lips!

"Punting!"
Eight glasses and three jugs of Pimms on board. Our Divine Student Guide led us to the Bridge of Sighs and back. "We are Spanish!" sang some girls from the banks. "Holland!" shouted one of ours.

Our Divine Student Guide told us a story about the Prince of Wales as we passed Trinity College. I'm not sure it's my place to tell it here so you'll just have to go and experience the journey for yourself!

"Eating!"
Lunch was a sandwich on the grass. Dinner was sit down at Browns Bar & Brasserie on Trumpington Street.
I had a Duck Egg and Asparagus Salad washed down with Cham Cham.
Oh how reckless the day! How reckless the night!

"Partying!
We wanted Cheese for dessert.
We went to the Blue Bar (?) for Vodka Redbulls
Lost our street cred in a Soul bar that played no Soul.
Found The Place Nightclub, the place to be! Cheese galore!
The girls called time at 3am. I could've stayed forever!

I got the train home the next day. I won't bore you with that.

Sleep-overs

In Em's spare room is The Best Mattress In The World.

Nightmares? Well be my guest! I can handle you without jutting springs stabbing me in the back.

When they came, they came thick and fast. Words, words, all words I'd written on the blog. Bad overlapped with good, overlapped with bad, tossing and turning and breathing, breathing, breathing.

Into this chaos came stiggers, singing me a Carly Simon song. She said she was sorry she called me a Weed. I told her I was one, I told her weeds are strong

"I hold you in my hands like a bunch of flowers....
Set you moving to the sweetest song..."

I asked her to stop. Stop, stop, STOP!

The house was locked for the night so I hung out the window with Nico Teen.

So far communing with my best friend and worst enemy has been quite effective in getting me back to sleep.

Thank God it worked.

Fear Fuellers

Ran into Lucky on Friday afternoon in the school playground. She hasn't been called for her Compliance interview yet but her disabled friend has.

"They've taken away her benefits," she said. "Now she's living on just £90 a week."

"Is she a mum?" I asked.

"Yes."

Compliance

They told me to remove my cycle helmet when I entered the portals of the Compliance Centre. I wanted to keep it on incase I crashed but it's against the law.

Nothing left of me, I gave:

I get the full child maintenance and Income Support
I wrote an article

She jotted down that, and what benefits I am receiving, who I am doing voluntary work for. Not that I was being evicted, not that I was under considerable stress.

She wants proof of article and three months worth of bank statements.

My small family is going to be pushed head first into poverty.

To think, yesterday I was really happy when I saw the CNJ had published my letter.

'Power on' was the headline on the back page as Supermario located and read it out to me.

Power on? After this morning?

I'm not a fecking duracell bunny.

I have company this weekend. Old company, from a hundred years ago, who knows me and loves me.

You are a weed, you are not weak

Thanks stiggers, I'll try and remember that.

Power on

No C in Pomegranite

Country keepers:
Compliance
Crucify
Crush
Care?
Council care?
Country care?

You decide

P = Plants

I am a Weed.
Back when the Foca handed me notice, I didn't know I was strong
Now I must remind myself I am not weak.

P = PHWOAR!!!

My friend Em's phwoartieth this weekend. She's sharing it with her neighbour. She's invited me to the celebrations in Cambridge!

"Shopping! Punting! Eating! Partying!" she said.

We're getting into a tardis and heading back to our past!

I say to the Government and the £238 million: SHOW ME THE MONEY!!
I say to myself and my bank account: FUCK THE MONEY!!

The timing couldn't be more perfect, though in my current mental minefield, I've no idea what shoes to pack....

PISSED OFF

On Tuesday, I finished the day's post writing: "I love life. I've really got to start trusting it."

Then as I went to the loo, I saw a nasty looking brown envelope on the doormat.
Here are its contents:

Jobcentre Plus
Customer Compliance

Invitation to office interview

Dear Ms de Nim

We are updating your details and need to see you to review the information we currently hold on your claim. There may have been changes you have not yet told us about. It is essential that you attend an interview with us so we can discuss the matter further.

You should note that where there is doubt about whether the conditions for entitlement are met, we can suspend payment of your benefit.

We would like you to attend at:

[The Compliance Centre]

on Friday, 09 July 2010 at 12.00PM

To avoid necessary delay, please bring this letter with you and show it to reception immediately on your arrival. Please ask for [the Compliance Officer]

Please arrive at the office promptly, as it may be difficult to fit in another appointment if you arrive late. If you cannot keep this appointment or wish to report any changes in your circumstances, please contact me on the above direct line number to arrange a mutually convenient time.

Things that I will need to see

passport,
driving licence,
utility bills,
rent agreement,
bank statements,
Proof of any other Income and Benefit

Yours sincerely

Customer Compliance Officer.

Fuckers.

"That must be stressful," said the Mum On Whose Shoulder I Dropped My Head at this morning's GO Maths! session at my son's school.

Fuckers fuckers fuckers

They like to strip you naked. They like to take take take until there's nothing left of you

This is the system though isn't it, this is my symbolic husband

Well you can bleed me all you like but you are not taking my soul

P = Planes

To be out of one's mind with joy is a great place to be
One just needs to know how to land occasionally

To be in one's mind with fear and fury is not a great place to be
One needs to know how to take off occasionally, to a better place

Up down up down spin spin spin round and round and round

I'm a novice, I'm still learning. I feel a centrifugal force pulling me down, down

I'm learning though. I'm learning...

M = My son

Last Friday morning as I soaked in the bath, I told my son, who was sitting on the loo, about my Pomegranite Plan, my Postcard to Parliament.

"Oh my boy, my postcard is going to make so much trouble."

"No it's not," said he, my beautiful child. "It is going to make a big difference!"

P is in HoPe - a song

Let the river run,
Let all the dreamers
Wake the nation.
Come, the New Great Bri-i-tain.

Silver cities rise,
The morning lights
The streets that meet them,
And sirens call them on
With a song.

It's asking for the taking.
Trembling, shaking.
Oh, my heart is aching.

We're coming to the edge,
Running on the water,
Coming through the fog,
Your sons and daughters.

We the great and small
Stand on a star
And blaze a trail of desire
Through the dark'ning dawn.

It's asking for the taking.
Come run with me now,
The sky is the color of blue
You've never even seen
In the eyes of your lover.

Oh, my heart is aching.
We're coming to the edge,
Running on the water,
Coming through the fog,
Your sons and daughters.

Let the river run,
Let all the dreamers
Wake the nation.
Come, the New Great Bri-i-tain
Come, the New Great Bri-i-tain
Come, the New Great Bri-i-tain

(Carly Simon featuring Stigmum. CD free in The Mail on Sunday, I can't remember when)

P = Progress

I sent a text to the Foca asking him if he was taking our son swimming that Monday afternoon, he was expecting it.

He replied saying it was his anniversary, could he do next week instead?

I hit reply: "I'm too weak this week & he missed it last week..."

A text came back: "OK"

My son was overjoyed when I told him.

I was pretty relieved as well.

My son often complains that his dad puts his wife before him.

Now I could say: "Not always baby, you see, not always"

I thanked the Foca.

P = Percentages

Women bear the brunt of budget cuts

Study shows men shouldering barely one quarter of tax and benefit pain

"Of the nearly £8bn net revenue to be raised by the financial year 2014-15, nearly £6bn will be from women and just over £2bn from men. [Yvette] Cooper said the proposed cuts of up to 40% in some departments' budgets, floated by the government at the weekend, would also be likely to disproportionately hit women, who make up a large section of the public sector workforce."
(Guardian, 5th July, Page 1)

It came as no surprise yet despite the depletion of all my emotions, I felt the crushing injustice.

I also figured that £238m is really a teeny weeny amount at the end of the day.

P = Parks

The 214 dropped me off at Parliament Hill Fields. I popped into Tesco Express to buy some lunch and a paper before heading to the Heath for a little picnic.

I read for a little while, then I lay down, my cheek on blades.

The Earth supported my body.

I didn't fall over, under, or through it.

P = Poetry

Four politicians have my Election/Eviction Story.
Four journalists have it too!

I told the Libdem Leader's Pal I wouldn't sell my story to the Mirror for £500.
I sold it instead to the Guardian in 500 words!

Which reminds me, I haven't declared it yet....

P = Pirates

I never realised the World's End is kitted out like a ship! It is! That's probably why the ground floor is quite devoid of anywhere to sit!

There's a winding spiral stair case (with bannisters!) leading up to quite a few tables and chairs!

On the walls there are pictures of ships in squalling seas!

Is it a Pirate's Ship?

I am a Pirate! I have the gold tooth to prove it!

I asked the barmaid if children were allowed onto the World's End.

She said until 5 o'clock!

My son my sun my boy my buoy, when they wouldn't let you in the other week, Paradise was not Lost! (Milton)

P = Parking

I got to the World's End just before lunchtime. The place was virtually empty, tables were free, but I saw a stool by the bar and I settled down there.

"A pint of orange juice and lemonade please," I asked the bar maid.

Then I put my head in my hands and would occasionally look up in case I fell asleep and toppled over.

P = Pledges

When I finished posting on Monday I took a bus to Camden Town and went straight to bind my eviction story.

I then made my way to the offices of the CNJ.

"Could you do me a favour?" I asked the woman at reception. "Could you give this to Journo Guy? Tell him it's past its sell by date and if it wasn't I'd have sent it electronically, like I did the other journalists, but it is so he gets it bound like the Prime Minister!"

She laughed!

I was so lightheaded when I walked out, my legs so hollow, my head so empty, that I figured I must float to the World's End for refuelling before I headed home.

P = Publications

I bound my Election/Eviction story for the Prime Minister and Co, as I did my dissertation thesis for my Masters. Less chance that they would lose it, greater chance that they might read it at some point.

At the time I didn't want to go all the way to Lewisham to do it, so I consulted Google.

I found Mail Boxes Etc, 33 Parkway, Camden on yell.com!

P = Painstaking

Every letter I have written to every Prime Minister since my life collapsed, has been done so by hand.

Early ones to Dobbie, before I even considered sending one to No 10 on the off chance, were written by hand.

I wanted there to be no mistakes, so each time I misspelt something, put an i before e, an e before i, I scrunched up the sheet and started again.

Painting over the cracks wasn't an option, so I never used Tippex.

Many trees, or perhaps just one.

How could I get the Milibands' name wrong on my postcard????

Have I been travelling phonetically?

Swept away by the music of the Jazz ensemble?

Google is my Home Page for goodness sake!

I've been trained and re-trained and re-trained to check the spellings of peoples names.

I have no excuses.

My postcard is flawed, just like me.

P = Projection

David Miliband says he did not know £238 million was being withheld from Camden (Crisis? What housing crisis? Miliband unaware of bitter homes repairs battle, July 1)? Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he was so busy he did not once turn the pages of the CNJ, which has extensively covered the issue. Forgivable?

(Damn, just realised I spelt his name wrong on my postcard to parliament. Too late now... do you think he'll forgive me?! His brother will have to as well....)

Aaaaargh! Before sending the email, I re-read the article just to make sure I had my facts right.

Why oh why didn't I do that before I sent the fecking postcard??????

P = Pow Wows

4.30 am or there abouts stiggers woke me up on Monday morning.

You've got to send a letter to the local paper. It's got a dual purpose. You need them on board and you need to apologise to the Millibands for not asking permission to use their name. Don't send it to the Journo Guy you know, send it to the Editorial Team.

OK

Send it properly, no rambling the way you always do.

OK

Don't go calling on the Journo Guy in the morning.

Oh stiggers!

There's good reason he didn't reply to your emails, believe that, be grateful, but do deliver our eviction story to him.

Yeah, I did tell him I'd give to him.

Don't put our names to it. Remember, we could be anybody.

OK.

Right, go and write the letter.

Oh stiggers, I'm knackered, can't I sleep?

Go on, go and write it. Write it, write it, write write write it!

Oh for fucks sake. Alright, alright...

T = Tune for sending postcard

The time is right and I'm holding on
I’ve gotta be your number one
I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh noooohhhhhhhhhh

It's all the things you do that tease and wound me bad
and it's the way you do the things you do to me
I'm not the kind of mum who gives up just like that
Oh noooohhhhhhhhhh

The time is right and I'm holding on
I’ve gotta be your number one
Number one

Every person wants you to give a toss
Not be the butt of the housing loss

I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh noooohhhhhhhhhh

The time is right and I'm holding on
I've gotta be your number one
Number one number one

Every child wants you to give a toss
Not be the butt of the housing loss

I'm not the kind of mum who gives up just like that
Oh noooohhhhhhhhhh

The time is right and I'm holding on
I've gotta be your number one
Number one, Number one

The time is right and I'm holding on....
(Blondie featuring Stigmum)

Stiggers, wasn't this supposed to go after P= Postbox?
Yes
Did we forget?!
Yes
Oh well, we did say the plan wasn't a puzzle
Who knows, it might be the best place to put it if the local paper publishes your letter tomorrow
I forgot about that, be quite good if they do, I do have an apology to make. What if they do stiggers?
Listen, what's life if you don't take a risk or two? We have to finish off Monday though, so you can go and check after that
Don't say that, I won't get any sleep

P is in imPact

I was a story in a newspaper.
No impact.
I wrote a story for a newspaper.
No impact.
Now I've sent a postcard.
Will that make an impact?

I told Uncle Vernon about my blog, told him not to tell anybody, nobody.
"If my postcard does have an impact, with me out on the world wide web, how can they say they didn't see me coming?!"

It's all quite funny really

P = Police

We're sat on the curb side with our cans, our boys playing somewhere on the street when a police man walks past with a blue blowup bass guitar.
"Cor I like your instrument!" shouts C's mum.
He turns and smiles at us and we laugh.
We sit making bawdy jokes, "fishing for talent" with her son's balloon. It doesn't tap anyone, never mind anyone nice. I haven't had such a good laugh in ages!

Friends, friends from my past,who I haven't seen for ages, stop by and chat, we say we'll hook up soon. I hope so, they're great people.

Later two guys stop and talk to us. They saw little C's customised Man Like Me t-shirt, they came from Brighton to listen to the band play. They were gutted too. They sit with us and shove fresh strawberries into a quarter vodka bottle.

Our sons meanwhile have found two badmington rackets and are playing with bottle tops that they find on the street.

The policeman comes back. He's very sweet, asks us if we mind filling out a community research form.

"Do you know Clout?" I say. C's mum laughs.
"Yes," he says.
"Is he your boss?"
"Yes."
"I interviewed him last year, nice man isn't he?"
"Yeah," he smiles. He's got dimples, he looks quite cheeky. C's mum's taken with him that's for sure!
"You interviewed him? What for?" she says.
"Part of a community research thing. He was really helpful. Has he got you doing this now? Going into the community, find out what we want from the force?"
"Yes,"
"Cool! Say thanks from me!"
We all chat some more until his "partner" comes along. He's not got such a friendly face and our copper gets up.

The guys we're with play with our boys as me and C's mum make a dash for the loo. "You can keep them!" she says laughing, then "what are we like, leaving them with people we don't even know!"

By the time we come back, my son's renamed them Uncle Mark and Uncle Vernon! Where he got those names I do not know!

We troop to the Golden Arches, because it's getting late and we need to feed our children.

They have a water fight with C's new pistol and a customer gets annoyed (no suprise there but at least the boys listened to him when asked to stop...)

My son had somehow got hold of the coppers blue blowup bass guitar.

He played it all the way home!

It took me half an hour to wake him on Monday morning. What a weekend though, what a weekend!

P = Performances

Rough Science - Welcome to the Experiment - a band from Camden Town!

Hey hey you you yeah
over here
you're turning me on, you're turning me on
Hey, let's have some fun

"They're good!" said C's mum as we bopped with a beer in one hand and the kids' balloons in the other. "I'll have to look them up on youtube!"
"I wish I had one of their cd's!" I shouted.
Bop bop listen listen bop bop

Caught up in a fucked up system (oh crikey that's me)
Not us, we're never gonna be a victim (yeah! wooo!)
Everyone just stop, look and listen
The way we're going there'll never be a future
See the world through a screen on your computer
locked up and the room's getting smaller
Nowhere to hide, big brother's gonna use ya

Breakin' the law breakin the law
still looking for that big break (hope I'm not breaking the law breaking the law Woo yeah!)

Bop bop listen bop bop

I'll be your personal stalker
breakin and enterin, I hope no-one saw me
I enter your window
I'll go through your wardrobe
I'll open your letters
and look at your photos
I'll tell you I love you, I'll tell you I love you
I just can't help it, I just can't help it
Obsessive compulsive, I'm obsessive compulsive (fuck that's you and me stiggers!)

You see I know all about you
like where you go shopping
and what you like eating
and where you like dancing
and when it's the weekend
I know all your secrets (Wah stigs, it is!)

Bop bop listen listen bop bop

Saw your face in the mirror and don't like what you see (I'm not so bad these days!)
When I first saw you I was connected from across the room
.....
she's in a trap, a trap of frustration (yes, yes I am)

Bop bop whistle whistle iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

At the end, they gave out free demo cds!! That's why you have the lyrics of this ska, reggae, punk/funk band, though no doubt I've got the words a bit wrong but never mind.

C's mum had come to see Man Like Me, had customised her son's t-shirt because he's such a big fan too, but for some reason they pulled out. They were gutted so I bought us another beer and on we all partied!

P = Parties

We were lucky. The annual Alma Street Party in Kentish Town that Jab had texted me about.

We walked there, and having forgotten quite how to get there, felt fortunate to discover we were following the drummer of the band Rough Science, who performed there last year.

Said 'hello' then at the corner where a band was already playing said 'goodbye'! We walked up the street, through people, past stalls selling this and that, and I saw the journo I'd replaced all those years ago when I got my first break.

Chat, chat, chat, said 'see you in a bit!' and carried on walking, spying a bar, spying a sweet stall, to the other end of the street where another band was playing and where we stopped to sit down on long white seats. I texted Jab while my son lay down.

We won't last here long, I thought, if we don't run into anyone we know. My son wouldn't handle it after partying at Kenwood the night before.

As I expected, when the band started singing "Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps," my son said he wanted to leave.

"After this song, after this song!"

After that song, they said they were going to sing Lou Reed's Perfect Day.

"We'll go after that one, promise! Please, I like that song!"
"Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

As I listened I saw my son's little school friend C, and his mum, a single working mother who I've chatted to quite a bit recently; she finally got transferred to a three bed.

She was there on her own. I offered to buy her a drink. Carling! I bought the boys sweets. The party truly got under way for us, it was great!

"If only every weekend we had this!" we said. Everybody in such a good mood, milling about, enjoying the open air.

Jab never made it but we were amongst the last to leave, at 9.30pm!

A hilarious time, but I'm crap at posting hilarity so you'll have to take it from me!

P = Pushing the envelope

push the envelope
Fig. to expand the definition, categorization, dimensions, or perimeters of something.
(http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/push+the+envelope)

My son and I pushed the postcard through the mouth of the postbox, together.

I thought I'd feel something: fear, desire, excitement, hope, anything!

I felt nothing. What an anti climax!

How totally cool actually.

We headed off to the street party hand in hand.

There really is nothing easier than sending a postcard.

The stamp I already had. Old ones I think, they've been in my wallet for ages! Means it probably travelled 2nd class like I do. Who knows!

P = Postbox

In the ward of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John there is a red postbox.

This is a coincidence I found quite funny, that I was acting in accordance with the Bible (am I? Don't think so!) I told my son but he didn't get it!

Good job, really. Don't want him growing up saying "My mum's a nutter!"
(I don't call my mum a nutter, I call her 'hardcore')

P = Photocopying

I liked the postcard I sent them. I bought it for me, not to send to anyone, so I figured I should photocopy it, then I will still always have it!

I thought I'd photocopy the words too as a memento

me·men·to 
[muh-men-toh]
–noun, plural -tos, -toes.
1.
an object or item that serves to remind one of a person, past event, etc.; keepsake; souvenir.
2.
anything serving as a reminder or warning.
3.
( initial capital letter, italics ) Roman Catholic Church . either of two prayers in the canon of the Mass, one for persons living and the other for persons dead.

Just popped into Google to check it really was me and not ma and saw the meaning No 3. I never knew that.

Well, I am currently reliving Sunday as I post this aren't I, which makes it a coincidence!

To finish to my sentence (before I was interrupted!) I copied the words as a memento so I always recall my bravery that day (with a little bit of stupidity chucked in!).

How could it be ma? Doh! Memory!

P = Phrasing

4th July 2010
Dear Mr Cameron, Mr Clegg,
the Coalition Government,
Please could you give the
Borough of Camden the
allocated £238 million funds for
housing withheld from it by the
previous Government?
Housing here is in crisis, you have
just made it worse by cutting
benefits. The money is there. We
need it. Thousands are suffering.
Thankyou

In the bottom right hand corner
(RIP Jennyfer Spencer)

You only have so much space
on a postcard

P = Procrastinating

It's astonishing how long it takes to transpose words and letters from one postcard to another.

I dither as my son watches Tom and Jerry huddled under a duvet.
"Come and join me mamma!"
"I'm just going to have a cup of tea."
"Please mummy, come under here with me."
"Let me just go outside and write this postcard darling, then I'll come back."

I take my tea, I find my response from Downing Street so I get the postcode right, and a black pen. Out I go with Nico Teen.
Nico Teen, some water, Nico Teen
More Nico Teen

"Mamma?" comes my son's voice from the living room. "Can I watch a DVD?"
"Sure you can honey!"

Breathe, breathe, breathe some more.

I go inside to see which DVD he's picked.
Hong Kong Phooey!!
"Brilliant choice son!"
"Mummy stay here," he says as I turn to go back outside.
"In a minute, I promise. I'll write the postcard and come back and watch it with you!"
Deadlines. I've always responded well to deadlines!

I copy down the letters, come back in the flat, pop my piece of card on the table and settle in next to my child.

I watch the janitor with martial art skills with my eyes closed.

P = Postal Addresses

I've addressed my postcard to 10 Downing Street, of course

I don't know where I'll be living when I get my response. I don't know when I'm moving either. Everything is up in the air, so to speak.

So, I put my name
C/O Frank Dobson, David and Ed Milliband,
Coalition members who live in the borough,
House of Commons
London SW1A OAA (the PM is 2AA!! Who's 1AA?!)

None of the Parties won the election, so to that end, they all govern, so I can put myself in all their "care".

They must care, not about me (though would be nice), about the Borough. They are all connected to it in some way.

P = Public Servants

They are elected by us to serve us and take care of us
Thank goodness I voted
Not for a Party you understand, I have my own
but for individuals
for policy

P = Pace yourself

I'm just going to have a lie down
Then maybe some lunch
A sandwich perhaps
and why not
a pink
ppppppppppPenguin
for energy

P = Potatoes

I usually buy Quavers or Cheese and Onion Walkers
but today I bought Monster Munch
Roast Beef flavour
Not Pickled Onion that I like
because there was none in stock

Then, just now I've just posted and am just thinking...
The French call the English Ros Beef
due to our penchant for not wearing suncream when the suns out (I'm a bit like that)

As for Monster Munch
Are those that run the State monsters?

Just a thought...

P is in resPonse

I'm not sure when I decided I had to use my own name on my postcard. Quite possibly when I saw the RSVP on my draft.
That's not English it's French, and so am I
Well, my blood is
Will always me confuse me that
in terms of belonging
That's why I like British
and Born Here
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

I'm losing the plot, postwise.
My thoughts are ok, they're in freefall, flying, free
Good job the weather's taken a turn for the worse
I can wear my heavy boots
keep me grounded

P = Punctuation

Mine's fucked but then so am I, so it's ok.
(no energy so no exclamation mark)

P = Permission

If I am to use politician's names on an RSVP it is only right that I ask them first really otherwise I risk having a black mark placed against my own name, in the same way I feel the housing division has done with it. Cameron, Clegg and Dobbie might recognise my handwriting you see and go "oh it's that nutter..." Oh I don't know, I didn't think through all that properly.

Dobbie could tell those at the top it was from me and that he'd met me and that he'd said it was ok then go on to get that money back for us.

That's what I needed Dobbie's blessing for, I realise that now.

P = Plans

I wrote the draft of my message to Government on the back of a "Saturdays" postcard which was laying about, you know them, that Girl Band, when I hadn't fully formulated my plan in my mind. It was still just an idea.

I didn't know how many I should send. Just one postcard? Or one every day until they paid attention or a postman intercepted it?

I didn't know who it should be from. Should I do it from a newspaper? Two, three, four newspapers? Broadcasters? Snow lives in Kentish Town, apparently. Should I put my name on it? Should I leave it blank?

That's when Stiggers got me giggling last thursday night, stamping my little size 4 feet on my springy mattress.

I should send it from Frank Dobson and the Miliband Brothers!

My how I laughed in those early hours! They sounded like a jazz ensemble!

My meeting was with Frank Dobson on Saturday morning. I should send it the following day, not straight after it, I should be sure I knew what I was doing but not leave it too long.

My son alerted me to a coincidence. He quite made my day!

As for a plan, I have no plan! It's unfolded itself infront of me right from the beginning.

I am going with the flow!

P = Pinch, Punch

We walk out of church and my son squeezes my arm then bashes me on it saying:
"Pinch Punch, fourth day of the month!"
"Argh, you're meant to do that on the....is it? Is it the fourth of the month?"
"Yes mamma."
"I can't believe it!"
"What mamma?"
"It's Independence Day in America!"
"What's independence mamma?"
"It's another word for freedom! It means freedom baby!"

P = Pray

I thought I'd say a prayer for the safe retrieval of the borough's 283 million pounds.
I didn't though.
I said a prayer for Jennyfer Spencer and Tony.
Same thing I guess though, isn't it?

P = Protest

Sunday I thought it would be better to take my son to church instead of plonking him infront of the telly while I went back to bed.

A huge row on the way there. He wanted to go to the other School in our neighbourhood that he visited with his classmates, which, he told me was shaped like a cross if seen from the sky.

A good idea, I thought, but I needed to be somewhere that I knew (abit) so suggested we go next time.

He didn't understand this, and why should he really. I've bought my boundaries very close to myself while his are growing, as they should.

Anyway, we're both exhausted and it develops into a monumental row.

He wouldn't hold my hand crossing the road and when he dawdled in the path of an oncoming car, I might have pulled his arm a little too hard, because he started crying.

I said I was sorry and still he shouted at me. At the church entrance I told him to dry his eyes, I would take him to the other School.

They were all stood singing when we got to our pew. My son immediately sat down. Oh in my training I'd always be nudging him to stand up, but that day, no, I found the number in the hymn book and started to holler.

He stood up then and joined in with me.

Later, as we filed to the children's liturgy, I told the priest that he'd done his First Holy Communion down with my parents' priest. Then a nun looked at me and said "Are you new? I've never seen you before."
"We come here when we're not somewhere else," I said.

My boy went up for the bread, no questions asked, and then, not something I see with other children, he stopped for a gulp of wine. The woman looked at me for that and I nodded.

Can we do that in the other School? I don't know. We'll find out though, next time.

P = Pacing oneself

"I'm shot to pieces," I said to my son this morning after he had to drag me out of bed following another broken night chatting with stiggers. He can't reach the cereal see, good job really.
But hey, there's life in this old bird yet!
Young bird
Thank you stiggers but I'm not messing up Summer Nights for you, that moment has gone

P is in sPontaneity

"We're all going up to Kenwood later for a picnic and listen to Rufus Wainwright play. Do you want to come?" Pond mamma asked me. "It'll be fun!"
It did sound good even if I don't really know Rufus, but did I have the energy (flip, do I now after posting all morning?)
"Thanks," I said. "Let me ask my son." He was playing pass the football by the poolside with the children of these parents I'd met.
I called over to him.
"These people have invited us to a picnic at Kenwood House tonight. Do you want to go?"
He looks up at one of the mums.
"Yes please. Thank you so much for inviting me!"
I felt a tug on my heart.
"I don't know how we'll get back from there," I say to a mum. The dad amongst them must have heard me because he said, in a broad northern Irish accent: "I can give use a lift back if you want. They're all on push bikes but I've got a car."

It was an amazing evening. My son didn't want to come home, he wanted to stay out under the sky, all night, playing with the other children. At the end of the night, the dad hoisted him up onto his shoulders, so he wouldn't have to walk back. His car was back by the Heath's Tennis Courts.

I was giddy from Cava, the only contributing thing I had in my fridge, left over from my birthday.

We all wove along paths and through woodland, my dream for a while to do that at night.

The beauty of travelling is that you can go with the flow if you allow yourself to.

Got home to a text from Jab saying there was a street party in Kentish Town the next day. Were we coming?

11.30pm I poured my son into bed, a big smile within me.

Saturday was a long day and life really took care of me. Really took care of me and my son.

I love life. I've really got to start trusting it.

P is in comPany

Just me and my son, alone together to play in the sunshine. A dead phone, maybe a good thing, forget about people for a while, concentrate on my boy.

He wanted to play football, so excited he was with his new shoes.
I wanted to go to the Lido, be supported by some water because I felt so faint.

The Heath, every thing to us.

I'm a hopeless dad, I really am, can't give the lad a good game so it was great when another dad playing with his son asked if our two boys could play together. Brilliant!

We parents were in goal. The dad was helping out his child, a year younger than mine and very good. I was a bit crap, just standing there like a corpse, not helping my child out at all. The game ended in a 7 - 7 draw though, so I wasn't that bad and my boy was pretty good too!

Afterwards me and the dad talked while the boys played together. Turns out he was a single dad. He carried his kid on the back of his bike too.

The play fighting between our sons inevitably ended up in tears, so it was a good moment to call it a day. It was 4.30.

Lido, lido...!

I expected us to be on our own in there but as I walked by the poolside a woman looked up and said "Hi! Do you remember me? I met you at the pond last week and I've been thinking of you all this week."

She invited us to sit with her and her friends and you know what? I said yes thanks even though I didn't think I had it in me to chat to anybody.

That didn't bother them at all. Later on, I found out that they were all single parents, all five of them.

All my mum friends are in couples. It felt so nice. It felt so nice, to be with them.

My Pond mamma told me I should speak to a housing ombudsman, that's what she did way back when and it helped her. "I got housed within weeks."

P = Pear and Pineapple

Quite a thirst walking through Camden saturday morning.

Juice. I really wanted some juice. Maybe I should pop into Sainsbury's and buy some fruit.

Juicy Fruit! "Strawberries!" I said to my son. "Plums!"

I figured he must be hungry, I certainly was. Let's go to Toasties where a homeless man once gave me a fiver for the Big Issue Walk and another time, another man, told me to leave my spare eviction story (for I'd just sent Cameron and Clegg a copy) in the Dublin Castle next door for the guy who had recently become my local councillor.

Closed.

Not closed as in not open yet, but closed down.

Oh no.

Opposite was a juice bar. I'd forgotten about that! Still oh no about Toasties.

I needed something refreshing. Oh choices, choices!! I liked the sound of Orange and Strawberry, but then Pear and Pineapple...Oooh, Pomegranite Plan in full swing, do I drink a drink beginning with P or just sod it, for goodness sake, fruit is any fruit in a Fruit Bowl.

My son had strawberry. The man said that Pear and Pineapple was "more refreshing" than Orange and Strawberry so that's what I went for.

What music was playing meanwhile?

The Cure! Isn't there a "saturday wait" lyric in Friday I'm In Love?!

On whose doorstep did we sit to drink?

An estate agent of all bloody places called "Live and let live" ("Student Prices - From £300 pw for a 2 bed... yeah right, not a stigmum price is it?)

Where were we?

Why! On Parkway!

I had a vague feeling I was going a bit doolally I was so lightheaded and was really so very grateful my son was with me.

My son my sun my boy my buoy

P = Phones

"Spoke 2 Dobbie. Said I could use him but better if i didn't. I said i accept it's my responsibility. Shiiiiiiit! Sorry to text u but u understand!"

I hit "send" and the phone went blank, a black screen before me.

"Oh no!"
"What is it mummy?"
"My phone's gone blank."
"You've run out of juice."
"Yeah but I usually get a warning if that's going to happen."
"Why do you think it is then?"
"I think it's God. It's God telling me not to send it to a newspaper man, I've got to carry on going my own way."

We were in Sports Direct buying a pair of football boots promised to him by the Foca.
Recipient of my text was at a Bob Dylan concert.

How many roads must a human walk down,
before you can call them a human?
How many seas must a white dove sail,
before she sleeps in the sand?
And how many times must a cannon ball fly,
before they're forever banned?
The answer my friend is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist,
before it is washed to the sea?
How many years can some people exist,
before they're allowed to be free?
And how many times can we guys turn our heads,
and pretend that we just do not see?
The answer my friend is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.

How many times must we guys look up,
before we see the sky?
And how many ears must one human have,
before they can hear people cry?
And how many deaths will it take till we know,
that too many people have died?
The answer my friend is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.
The answer my friend is blowing in the wind,
the answer is blowing in the wind.

Yeah ok stig, song messer upper

I was sitting waiting for the sales assistant to come back. He tooks ages.

Can't phone a friend with a blank mobile now can I?

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?

Me!

P = Political Parties

It's of great comfort to me right now that the I Don't Know Party still exists!
Who's the Leader?
Noah Idea!

P = Politicians

I like Dobbie, I do. There's something very genuine about him and he always replies to my letters.

I don't know what I was expecting in that room but when he said I was "intelligent", it certainly wasn't my demonic rage. Or should I now call it my Psychotic rage ho ho?!

The Weed Woke Up.

I was only half listening to him say the money was for the Decent Homes programme and repairs, not for re-building when I interrupted him and said: "There are plenty of empty properties."

I didn't hiss it, I didn't spit it, I said it with what only can be described as conviction.

After that I was off, pulling out my folded "Saturdays" postcard from it's yellow envelope, telling him my idea.

"You! You! It's got to be you!"
"No!"
"It has to be! Imagine!"
"No!"
On and on and on....
"No, no, no no!"
"Not only you, the Millibands too! They're born in the borough! Born in the borough!
"No!"

Eventually a penny dropped into my head.

"It's to the coalition people, how many of them are born here?"
"I don't know, but some must live here."

Only he can tell you how I looked. I felt Wild!!!

I read out my draft, said "this is the card I'm going to use," and pulled out the Camden Town one. He and his assistant looked at it.
"You have my eviction story, so do they! I wrote to you, I told you, Cameron and Clegg have it, it's in Parliament
"Oh God, they're going to persecute me, they're going to persecute me," turning to the assistant.
"Mmmm," she said, then, I don't know, our eyes must have connected, because she said: "No, no I'm sure they won't." I calmed down, so grateful for her reasurrance.

"So can I use your name then?" turning back to Dobbie. "Can I put my address as care of you because I don't know where I'll be living when the money comes..."
"Yes, but it would be better if you didn't."

Yes! Yes! The Man from Del Monte he say Yes!

He said it would be better if I didn't a couple of times. I did hear him.

"I accept that it's my responsibility," the words coming calmly from nowhere.

He put on my son's green sunglasses he'd got in a party bag. Maybe that was before I said it was my responsibility. Yes I think it was, or while I was saying it, I can't remember.

He handed them back to my son then we shook hands.

As we walked out I said:

"Oh, if you can, you couldn't chuck us a few points could you?!"

Oh I know that was pointless but you can't blame a girl for trying!

M = My son

"My mummy wants a two bedroom flat and I want a big Sony TV."

We laughed.

Love, love, love in my heart
Love in my soul

P = Purpose

I didn't think I'd have much time with Dobbie, a Patient told me he was only seeing people for an hour and there were a good five or six people after me (which I didn't think was many actually, given the scale of the borough's problems)

Anyway, I launched in with what I said to the Leader of the Council on friday night and Dobbie's assistant, a friendly faced woman, was saying "slow down, slow down! We need to note down your details!"

I, on my different planet, already knew that this was a bit pointless, but I passed her Dobbie's letter from the House of Commons, because that had my address on it. She passed it to Dobbie, who began to re-read it.

It's quite clear to me now, in hindsight, that what I didn't have in that room was Patience. I wanted to get my Point and Purpose over as quickly as I Possibly could.

They may have looked up when I said: "What I'm really here for is your blessing."

We were there for much longer than I've implied by Post.

P = Putting off

You can put off today what you can do tomorrow
But I'm with you on this one stiggers, let's get Saturday over and done with
Breathe
Breathe
Tea with two spoonfuls of sugar
Not right now Nico Teen
Oh ok then

P = Punctuality

I got to the surgery half an hour early to find out from a fellow patient that the politician was half an hour late.

The scheduled time was apparently 10am , not the 11am I had on my calender.

Result!

I was Number 27, about 5th in the queue.

That's more like it!

(Which has got me thinking, I've forgotten to bid this week...oh well, like it would make a sodding bit of difference...)

P = Public Transport

In truth I felt like a wilted weed.
I couldn't pedal to Camden with my son's beautiful weight on the back of Zat.
I felt wobbly, I felt shaky, I felt a little trembly.
I needed something solid.
Something solid with four wheels, not two

The wheels of the bus go round and round
The bell on the bus goes tingalingaling
The baby on the bus goes wah wah wah
(though not my chatterbox child, never, always been a brilliant travelling companion)
This mamma on the bus says I love you!
All day long!

P is in triP

This isn't a holiday, it's more of a trip.

I'm trippin' baby, woo aaaaah!

Mustn't forget to send a postcard!

P = Packing

Postcards - check
Nico Teen - check
Water - check

We were half way to the bus stop when I had to run back to get my letter from the House of Commons because in it Dobbie wrote:

"As I am not a member of Camden Council, with decisions on such matters resing with the Council and not with me, I am at a loss to know what further action I can usefully take on your behalf. However, if you are of the view that there is anything more I can do which is likely to help, do please let me know. In the meantime, I apologise for not achieving more on behalf of you and your son."

If the worst came to the worst, I could say "but you said..."

In the event, the worst didn't come to the worst and I didn't need to say "but you said".

Breathe

P = PG Tips

Sometimes you've got to be a bit of a cheeky monkey

P = Petrified

Breathe
Breathe
Breathe some more
Breathe
Keep breathing

P = Parched

The fear/desire combo makes you so thirsty,
so thirsty,
so unbelievably thirsty.
The thirst does not stop
even though you're going to the loo alot.

P= Points

"I've been chasing points for six years, " I said breathlessly. "Now I'm going to make one. Well, I'm going to make two. I've had enough, I'm going to the press and I hope the council won't hurt me and my son more than it is already doing. I'm also going to try and get the £238 million withheld money back to the borough. I'll chat to you later, this isn't a good place to talk."

Me to the Leader of the Council, a dad in the playground, in the school hall last friday at the International Evening. Key Stage One had just finished performing a song. I was near the front, in the centre, my son directly infront of me but with his back to the packed audience. I could see the Leader to my right. I must grab the opportunity.
I caught up with him at the end of the evening, outside, as he was leaving.

"We've written plenty of letters," he said.
"Not you, me!"

He said I could put his name on my postcard.

Yeah baby!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P = Pork Pies

If the Government tells me the money's been spent, there is no money, I will not believe them.

Simple as that.

F = French Revolution

Just scrolling down to see how many posts I've written this month I see that it's 14!

July (14)!

Has my Postcard stormed Parliament today?!

This is the 15th post, clearly, but I had to share my little giggle!

Hee hee hee!

P is in sPent

I'm fucked. I'm totally, utterly spent. All the posts you are reading today, I wrote on Friday.

It's Monday now, obviously. There's loads more that I have to write, or I want to write, or I should write.

I'm fecking shattered though. Stiggers is keeping me up all night again, which is ok, because she does come up with the odd good idea but I've got things to do and I must be getting on.

So let's just say yeah, that everything I am yet to post, all happened this weekend. That anything that has the remotest link to the Pomegranite, happened this weekend.

Some of it (you might have already read?) might sound abit biblical, abit loopy. Ne'er mind, I know we're not the Second Coming so it's cool.

You know what? I stopped writing The Book That Will Never Be Published after I was evicted. I was sooooo tired. I was soooooooooooo tired I slept for six months. No, I probably slept for longer that that. That's why I'll always be grateful to SureStart.

P = Peace

An extraordinary thing has happened this past week. I let go of a long held regret.

I mean a very long held regret; a seven year old regret.

My biggest regret all these years, these many, many years, has been moving out of my Bolthole in Wandsworth to move in with the Foca. A crap regret I know, given he is the Father Of Child.

Chatting to My Advice Man last Sunday, I told him that wasn't my regret anymore, I've replaced it with a new one.

"I should've stayed put when he handed me notice. I should have made him take me through the courts like the Church had to do, like the Housing Association is doing, but I wanted to keep the peace. Peace, keeping the fucking peace. Fuck that now."

That's when he said I was desperate.

P = Presentation

I might just wear what I am wearing today to go see Dobbie in the morning. A white blouse and bermuda denim shorts, only with flipflops.

A couple of people said I looked nice this morning, you see, though of course they might have been talking about my shoes.

They are nice, I have to say (although I met a woman later as I was walking to pick my son up from school, who said she had the exact same ones that lacerated her feet. She told me to put surgical spirit on the wound when it's healed, that's what she's going to do).

You meet great people on the Heath!

P = Plasters

My beautiful new red wedges that I bought with a gift card given to me back in 2007, which for the life of me, I can't remember from whom, has caused a blister on my heel (achilles?)

The answer of course, to allow the broken, raw, red seeping mass to heal, is to wear different shoes.

I however toddled along to the chemist and bought some plasters before tromping up here to the Heath in them.

"Elastoplast Sensitive SILVERHEALINGTM" "antibacterial" ones that "kill harmful germs for optimal healing" and are "skin friendly".

Woo hoo!

"There are important healing properties in silver apparantly," I said to the chemist and he agreed.

A plaster is a quick fix though. Skin needs to breathe.

I'm wearing flip flops to see Dobbie tomorrow.

It's been agreed.

P = Preparation

There's an International Evening at my son's school tonight.

It's great fun; we international bunch of parents make food from our country which we sit around scoffing to a steel band that comes every year. The children play music, they sing, they play, we parents chat or don't chat if we don't want to, it's cool!

I am not going to drink. I love Al Cohol, I do, and every year I get a little bit tipsy, buy a couple of bottles of beer on the way home and ride on the feeling for as long as I can.

This year? Tonight? Uh uh. I'm going to see Dobbie tomorrow. It's the most important meeting of my entire plan and my plan has got to work.

I'm trying not to think about it and hoping the right words will come when I'm seated with him.

Six years ago I wrote him a load of letters but when I went to his surgery, he wasn't there. Glenda was.

I hope he's there tomorrow. I need his blessing and I need his permission.

He'll be there

Thanks Stiggers