The council called me yesterday at 8.50 am to ask if I'd been contacted in regards to viewing a flat. The viewing was meant to be that afternoon but it seemed no-one had been told. I wasn't surprised to get an invitation. I don't know why. Possibly because I like this flat we're in. This flat we can't stay in.
She called again at 10am where my son rather unhelpfully told her I was 'sleeping in bed', which I wasn't. We were both being lazy and playing and tickling and being generally silly... 'sleeping in bed...' tsk..
Friday. I view it Friday. A two bedroom flat. Third floor. One double room, one single. Blow heating. (Blow heating? Is that similar to totally ineffectual storage heating?) Shared garden.
I'm Number 2.
I should be excited but I'm not, I'm terrified.
It's much further, much much further to a main road, public transport and shops BUT I can relax about my son's education and my job, that those aren't disrupted.
Zat. Zat bike. What will happen to you Zat? I still need you to get to work. Where will you live?
"It's a big decision," said the woman from the council.
I have to say there and then if I want it or not.
I can't say no can I? They say you can but read me and my experience and you know I can't.
The choices we are forced to make are not the choices we would love to make. Everywhere I've bid on recently, or risk being taken off the lists, have been on estates I wouldn't 'choose' to raise my child.
My son caught me crying yesterday afternoon. "Don't worry mummy, we'll move in, play the lottery, win and then buy something brilliant."
I thank the world for my son everyday. I ask the world to protect my son everyday.
I'm Number 2. Number 1 could always say "Yes"