Eclipses

I've barely read or watched the news this week but did see that Ed Milliband said council flats would go to people who worked.

SO PARENTING ISN'T A JOB THEN?????????????

You can hear me, can't you, thinking it.

Well, yesterday, in the Ham & High, an article about Frank Dobson saying he earns £66,000 but still can't afford to leave his council flat!

That's rich ey?!

Ah you have to laugh.

Well, I allowed myself a little chuckle as I wrote a letter in response to it last night, mindful, very very mindful, that I went to see Dobbie two weeks ago and he agreed to help me if I can get the law centre or another organisation to write to him.

I read my horoscopes this morning which told me there a was a lunar eclipse yesterday.

Are you feeling ok after the eclipse yesterday? asks Closer Online.

Well yes, if the paper publishes my letter, if a body (Shelter? Or do I have to do a law degree?) writes a letter, if Dobbie from all that, talks to ministers and and and...

Apparently there are more eclipses on the way.

Does it mean something GOOD Nina? Yeah, I've been listening to that alot this morning, as I emailed my letter across.

Be still
Be still
Be still

Eek !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Labour's Housing election priority

I read things late, I do, but yesterday trawling through Guardian online discovered that Ed Miliband has made housing an 'election priority'. He's pledged, a week or so ago, to build 25,000 new homes.

That's all very good but I can't help wishing he'd read out my postcard in PMQ's or whereever. Can you imagine? Sent by a statutory homeless person regarding money for repairs of existing properties? Loaded I reckon, for a good debate afterwards especially as there's also a dead person named on it but then what do statutory homeless people know...

This one has discovered there's a big housing conference going on in Harrogate in two weeks time organised by the Chartered Institute of Housing. The Housing Minister and the Shadow Housing Minister will be there. Should be interesting, in light of Miliband's new pledges!

I wonder if Dobbie will pass my letter to Shapps to Seabeck the Shadow and she'll ask him questions that he hasn't answered me?

That would be quite funny actually, in that stranger things have happened kind of way...

Heh heh heh hmmm

Obstacles and patience...

So simple, so simple I thought it would be.

I ran along to the Law Centre like my good MP told me to (and he is good, he is..) and they said, well the receptionist said, that the lawyers can't write a letter unless the MP writes them a letter specifically asking them to do so.

"Oh really?" I said, incredulous. It didn't help that I met a human rights lawyer at a party a few weeks ago who said statutory instruments were very quick to look up if you are in the field, so when the receptionist said 'It's a lot of work', I erm, didn't quite believe her. And besides, in this case, my MP made it quite clear I had to help him, in order for him to help me. I told him the Law Centre were unlikely to help me, legal aid an' all, and he seemed to think because I wasn't taking a case it should be fine.

I rang the MP's office afterwards. His secretary said that he couldn't write the letter. She also said the Law Centre would only do it if they saw an interest in it.

Do they see an interest in the homeless being given rights or do they think holy fuck, every one will have rights and no-one will be able to exercise them because there's no money and what little legal aid is left is being slashed?

Despondant I was. Despondant because I'd also written to Shelter (you may think that contacting both it wrong but I'm on my own here, I need as much support with my idea as possible...)

Anyway, Shelter haven't gotten back..yet. The MP's secretary said it might take a while.

Cainer told me yesterday to be patient.

I had a dream this morning I should so a course in housing law, become a housing lawyer and write the letter to the MP myself on embossed paper. Wave it at the ministers. It made me tired just thinking about it...

I don't know. Perhaps I should do what my instinct told me yesterday, as well as Cainer, to sit on my hands so I don't bite my nails and pick my cuticles and bide my time.

Argh, you know, sometimes I need to take my own advice and slowwww dowwwwn and trussst that things will work out.

Up hill all the way innit?

Hoping my idea's developing - a song

Once I believed that when ideas came to me
They would come with plans and answers quick(er)ly
But with homeless you
it just started quietly and grew
And believe it or not
Now there's something groovy and good
'Bout whatever I got

And it's getting better
Growing stronger warm and wiser
Getting better everyday, better every day?

I do feel quite turned on and starry eyed
And I feel a calm contentment deep inside
Holding dreams at night just seems kind of natural and right
If it works you will see
That it isn't half of what it's going to turn out to be

My idea’s getting better
Growing stronger, warm and wiser
Getting better everyday, better everyday?

Ba da da da da da da da da da da da

And I don't mind waitin', do I mind waitin?
'Cause no matter how long it takes
That deep down I know
My idea’s getting better
Growing stronger, warm and wiser
Getting better everyday, better everyday

I hope it's getting strong
I really hope it's getting strong
I hope it's getting strong
I really hope it's getting strong....

(Mama Cass featuring Stigmum)

and now with accompanying music you can hear....!

The Tortoise and the Hare

In my son's absence, I told you didn't I that I would take a break from blogging in order to clear that head of mine ready to ask Dobbie to save the Universe, just for me (heh heh).

I didn't clear my head, but I did go to see him.

He recognised me which was great and at the same time was suprised to see me. What would I want now?

Save the Universe Dobbie!

No, of course what I'd planned to say I didn't, but I got my main points out:

The homeless are discriminated against in policy. Please get the Statutory Instrument (whatever that is... yeah, I was still confused by the time I went to see him). He said there were hundreds upon thousands of Statutory Instruments and I looked at him blankly. Well, it felt blankly from my side, I couldn't say what he interpreted because he told me to get a legal organisation such as the Law Centre or Shelter to write to him listing what needed to be changed and he would take that to ministers!

I was quite shocked. I don't know what I expected. Surely I expected that? I couldn't ask for much better could I?

I'd come armed with four letters. One I'd written to him, one I'd written to Miliband, one I'd written to Shapps and the latest one to Clegg. I'd had a whole speech prepared around these letters but all I said was to read them.

One thing that startled me was how startled he looked when I said amending the Statutory Instruments as relates to the homeless was a "symbolic gesture that will rip open the debate. The need, the need..." and he nodded like he understood what I was saying.

He didn't say nothing could be done though did he? He didn't say it was hopeless. He could have done. Imagine he was a Tory.. he would have done, maybe, possibly, perhaps.

This, after what it seems like years I've been campaigning, feels like a beginning. It feels like a beginning that won't have a speedy resolution.

That night I had a dream about the Tortoise and the Hare. The tortoise wins in the end! The tortoise wins!

I must do as Dobbie asked then patiently wait.

Patiently hope.

Patiently believe.

I also promised New Day New Lesson that I would post her link about turtles and rabbits because I read it just the next day and it felt like a brilliant coincidence even though our subject matter differed!

Slow and steady wins the race she says.

My campaign's been slow and hopefully I can one day prove or give hope to others, that slow can finish and finish successfully!

Believe

The weight of it

I am quite light
Stiggers is quite heavy
Together we are Quitesomething
Quitesomething who doesn't smoke!
We need to adjust a little
Stiggers is keeping me awake telling me what to write, editing stuff
So I'm enforcing a break
I'm not going to miss you this time stiggers
Cos I'm taking you with me!
Together in my electric Dreams!
Human leagues
I must contact now
but in my own time ok?

(With thanks to Phil Oakey)

New Moons and Resolutions

On New Years Day I resolved to stop biting my nails. Out in my parent's garden with Nico Teen, I thought quite hard about what to do (owing largely to the volume of wine I'd sunk the night before, it was not an easy task)
Stopping smoking only crossed my mind because it didn't cross my mind and I ruled it out straight away. Not today, I thought. You'll fail. Besides, don't want to, I need it.
Then an idea popped into my head: "Why don't you go back to London a non-smoker?"
I thought this was quite novel!
My sister in law, who's never smoked, said I wasn't ready.
The idea kept popping into my head though, like a woodpecker chipping away in the forest of my mind.

Bro and sis in law left England on the morning of January 4th. My son and I came back to London in the afternoon.

It should be a day like any other day but according to my magazine it was a special day.

New Moon - January 4th
Although we begin the month with the tail end of the waning Moon, the new Moon comes into force on the 4th and is tghe time to make big life-changing choices; so what ever your dreams, start planning for them now. Get a notebook and write down everything you want and don't want in your life. Being the first new Moon of the New Year, it's time to dream big, because the bigger the your dreams are, the better chance you have of making them a reality. (Soul & Spirit January 2011, p.13)

I smoked a final cigarette over my son's head at the train station thinking what a good coincidence, the new Moon! By the next full Moon, I would do something about my borough's housing problem too!

The intentions were there, strong, forward looking, positive.

Today my nails remain picked and bitten, Nico Teen is still a huge part of my life, and the borough's housing problems remain untouched by me.

I couldn't have foreseen how the early days of the year would play out but it's a full Moon today so a perfect moment to get back on track.

No pressure
heh heh heh

Dreams of victory and defeat

There is victory in defeat. You've heard that saying before yeah?

I had a wierd dream last night where I was standing outside the Courts of Justice saying:
"There is defeat in victory."
I was smiling.
Like I say, wierd...
Just thought I'd share that with you!

The Pomegranite Plan

The Pomegranite - the last fruit in the fruit bowl.
The Pomegranite Plan - all the P's
Postcards
Prime Minister
People
Pounds
Press

Earlier this week I emailed a gentleman asking if I could meet him for some advice. The plan wasn't formulated in my mind but I was feeling overwhelmed with erm, feeling.

He got back to me yesterday. I couldn't make the time he suggested because of problems with access arrangements. Could I meet him later and throw him a beer (a pint?!)

He replied asking if I liked Pearl Jam. He had a free ticket for tonight's gig in Hyde Park.

Pearl Jam!

Am I making this up?!

I'll proceed to the gig. Do I proceed with The Pomegranite?

The Pomegranite

Skin and flesh and seeds

The final fruit in the fruit bowl?

It's worth a whopping £283 million, not just to me.

If I can figure out the best way to peel it that is

Call from social worker

She sounded quite gentle on the phone. Asked when she could come round and see me with my son here. Not today I said, so she's suggested Monday, just before me or his dad take him swimming.

Given I feel so defeated by housing, perhaps my voice will be calm. I can't turn tears on and off but this is about the needs of my child. His need for a secure home. Gosh I might even tell her she's too late and I'm going to the papers. My new Pomegranite idea is big in my head you know, and getting bigger and bigger.

I peruse the mess. I've no motivation right now. Oh happy weekend...

My son's been referred to social workers

Dear Sue de Nim,

Re: Son de Nim

I am writing to inform you that Camden Family Services and Social Work have received a referral from your housing worker in relation to your child.

This matter has been discussed and it was felt that a referral to our services was necessary. On the basis of this information, a decision has been made to allocate this case for assessment by a Social Worker in accordance with our statutory duties under the Childrens Act 1989 and 2004 within a seven day period.

Your allocated Social Worker...will be contacting you within the next seven days to arrange a home visit. If you have any queries regarding the above information please contact [person] to discuss.

Yours sincerely

Duty Officer

As I bought my son home early from school to watch the footie yesterday, this was waiting for me.

I referred myself to social workers not long ago and got a response that they couldn't help me. Suddenly a member of the Council sees me cry in my cluttered flat and someone's going to come round and assess my son. Assess me.

If I cry, if I'm angry, is this how I am day to day with my child? Is he at risk, from me?

Lucky, Billie, Babyface, all their stories swim inside me and fuel my fear. Children on supervision orders, children taken away.

The Foca (he still hasn't texted me back as to when he'll pick up our son, who's been crying daily wanting to see him)

The director's name at the bottom of the letter: I interviewed her last year as part of the participatory appraisal research.

I don't know what to think or make of all this. Lucky and Billie are still in their one-beds awaiting transfer. Babyface is still in a hostel.

An idea came to me yesterday morning, to go to the press. Should I do this now or do I let all this social worker stuff play out?

The eviction is coming, I've been told and told again we won't get a council flat, we'll just go into further temporary accommodation.

I've had enough. Is the press the final fruit? I thought this yesterday morning. The hairdresser said I'd eaten all the fruit in the fruitbowl of my life.

I haven't. There's one more.

The Pomegranite.

The press won't help us. I know that. I'll lose my anonymity for no personal gain.

There's a chance, with social workers help, that my son's school will remain secure for him.

There's still no chance we'll get a council flat and the wheel will continue to turn, spitting us out every few years.

I wish I had a thousand followers today so you could tell me what to do.

I don't though, so I'll take my son to the Lido later and submerge my head under the water. It's not quite an octopus' garden but I might find some answers.

From the depths come bright ideas

My bright idea as I sat in the dark cloud with my Black Dog earlier today, was to send an email to Jeremy Vine's Radio 2 show, about, of course, the three political parties and housing.

So fearful was I (what if they call me back, what if they read it out, what if my name is thrown out nationally, what if what if what if....) that I did what I always do in such situations and consulted my horoscope:

Fight or flight? Persist or desist? It's hard to know quite what to do about your current obstacle, but it is at least clear that there's not much room for compromise. Generally speaking, when life presents us with no 'middle way', it either matters immensely which course we take - or it makes no difference. Try an imaginary exercise, just for a moment. Throwing yourself wholeheartedly (or at least whole- headedly) into either of your two options. How does that feel? If it feels right and positive, think no further. If not, think again.

Oh I don't know. Oh sod it. I wrote my don't know who to vote for scribe on their website, then I emailed my friend Em the election/eviction diary I'd promised her last week, saying I was thinking of sending an email to Vine, then went back to the website, pressed send, after which Em's reply came back saying "go for it!"

A quivering mass of nerves I was, especially when I heard Clegg was going to be there for an interview. Oh no! I've met him, oh no oh no oh no!

Then I got a message on my mobile from a mum I did my thesis on two years ago, asking me how I was doing. Alright, I said, and you?

Aaargh Fuck. Any nerves at sending that email just flew out the window. She'd been in hostels for four years when I met her two years ago. Details, details, they make me too angry but suffice to say her two very young children were taken by the social services and have now been adopted by another family.

She is still in a hostel, her and her partner are still together. Given what they've both been through at the hands of the council I didn't think they would be.

AAAARGH. It's so WRONG what happens to some people. Remember I met them, she quiet, he vocal, a nice couple. Geez, I don't understand some things.

As it happens Vine didn't read out my email, the radio station didn't call. That's ok. It took courage I mistook for madness to send it.

I have got to learn not to be afraid. I've got to start talking to the Black Dog to discover why I am. If I even dare to talk on behalf of other people, I need to sort that out first.

On a brighter note, my brother texted to say sorry about the weekend and the mum I've just been writing about has texted me saying to call her name here "Baby Face". I will do should I write about her again. It's made me laugh... these strong mothers and the names they give themselves... 'Lucky' is the other one. The ones that ask me to make up names for them get ones, well, you wouldn't know I make them up.

I wish them both luck, I really do.

A job hunting experiment?

Following yesterday's seminar on the need for social as well as academic skills, I'm rather tempted to send out my CV with just my 'basic' qualification on it. Given that I took O'Levels and not GCSE's (apart from maths, which I had to retake and retake) they will know immediately that I am not a spring chicken, more an autumn peasant, I mean pheasant.

Wow, take eight years away. How do I fill these years actually spent studying for exams (ahem)?
Embellish the jobs I did, I guess. Pretend I did them for longer. There are rather alot of them so it would be good to give them an airing. They never make it onto the required two pages of the curriculum vitae these days.

Now let's see; washer upper in a pub, manufacturer and seller of handmade chocolates, service staff in a self service restaurant, ride operator in an amusement park, cleaner, bar staff, dinner lady, waitress, factory worker, data inputter, telemarketer, telesales, cleaner again (France, that should earn something no?) boat stewardess, call centre operative, teacher, hostess, oh my goodness, forgot - sales assistant, cashier, I'm getting quite depressed now, I don't want to do these jobs again (although teacher... hmm). Luckily I can chuck in some journo stuff. I was so glad when I finally got to that, an end to all those means I thought....

I could expand the time I spent abroad. Pretend I went for that job in Tahiti. Oh silly me that I didn't - I came home to get a 'career' ha ha.

I can squeeze eight years out of that can't I? I'll go for social research jobs obviously. Aim high. I think my experiences lend themselves very well to that; Perhaps I should give myself a chance and aim for some type of voluntary thing, an internship. For motherhood of course, I've been doing that for years, but that's not seen as a proper job. I've been out of work, 'unemployed', for a rather long time. Employers find that off putting.

Yes, I know I'll have to embellish the truth, but it's an experiment remember. How much does a degree matter? In recent years I've had rejections if I'm lucky. Usually they don't get back in touch at all. Such is life but you may know this life, it's not uncommon.

Shall I?

I'm tempted.

I might just re-write the CV and see. But then again, I'm scared of going back to work. Scared I'll miss my son's plays, fun runs, sport days, concerts, class teas, half term, my easter, summer, christmas holiday access with him, he won't like any of that at all either. Bazza's boot camp - that does me so much good....

I'm so extraordinarily good at thinking my way out of good ideas.

Ready boots? Start walking!

Last night, after writing the Big Issue idea, I thought sod it and signed up to the 18 mile walk.

I am wholly unprepared!!

I balk at walking a mile on these city pavements. They are so hard! So unyielding! So 18 miles? Whatever am I thinking of? Homeless men, homeless women, homeless children.....

Raising money?! This is not my forte! I've put the link on facebook. My friends my friends, I know I haven't spoken to you for ages but would you.....could you... sponsor me?!

How does one go about this? I don't have the time to organise a pub bingo or whatever as the next weekend I have off, I'm walking!!

Perhaps I should ask other people I know. Like Mr King, the Libdem man behind the auctioning off of properties. Yes! He can't intervene for me he says, but he could sponsor me couldn't he?!

Lawyers that I'll cold call on Monday. "Full capacity you say? Oh well, sponsor me...?!"

I hope the ideas will come, I hope they will meet with success!

This could be fun! This could be great fun!

Small BIG Issue idea

I am thinking of signing up to the Big Issue's Big Night Out Winter Walk 2009.

On the 20th November 200 people will be walking 18 miles around this great city that is London, through the night, to raise funds for the Big Issue Foundation.

I am tempted. I feel so hopeless it might make me feel better. I'll be in good company, with people who feel as strongly about housing as me.

Me, lazy little me, walking 18 miles!

I can do it as a protest, on behalf of the thousands jammed in dreadful housing situations. I can pretend it's a punishment, for landing myself in this situation. If I find it too hard going I can pretend I'm carrying a crucifix as I trudge along, with the hope of finding some kind of redemption at the end. Us mental cases spend so much time in our heads that shouldn't be too difficult.

I'd have to find sponsors. I don't work so how will I find them? This could give me a job to do next week instead of sinking into some kind of bleak depression. A challenge! A veritable challenge!

It costs £30 to do it, but that's a night out in London anyway.

I'm thinking about trying to get friends to come along but who? I can just as easily do it by myself. There'll be loads of people there. The website says I'll have "exclusive access to some of London's most inspiring venues", that I can "meet and chat with [their] vendors", that there will be "surprise on route entertainment"!

I should do it shouldn't I? Rise to this challenge that lies so close to my heart?

As Nancy Sinatra sang, and stigmum wants to put her own bit in:

These boots are made for walking
And that's just what they'll do
One of these day these boots will walk
All over punitive housing policies

I will, I certainly will, if I do it that is, wear something RED!

Method in madness

On Friday, as I'm writing "the weight of ideas", my support worker phones me. "I haven't heard from you in a long time," I say. He asks me how I am, and as I am in the midst of posting my housing thoughts I say "Not good, I'm tired of being in this situation."

He asks me if I've thought of getting a letter from a doctor, it might help my case. I tell him I missed a psychotherapy assessment two weeks ago. "Why is it, why is it I have to be mad to get housed? Doctors and therapists have written letters, it hasn't helped." I tell the support worker about my history in the private sector. He knows all this. He arranges to come and see me on Thursday.

I missed my second shrink assessment. I got the wrong day. I thought it was a Friday but it was the day before. Perhaps I should call them, make another appointment. At the first assessment she said "We don't know how to help you. How can we help you?" Between you and me, I've had enough of therapy, therapy has had enough of me.

Still I should call. Get them to write another letter. Tell them I'm going to bid at auction if the opportunity arises. I'm not entirely happy about seeing a shrink, particularly if I invite the press and the press come along.

Still I'm not unique. If that's the story they want to focus on, it might just give an idea of the hoops we have to jump through.

Over in Dagenham the waiting list isn't so long apparantly. A report came out last week that only 2% of immigrants get housed, indicating they are not given priority over nationals. The parents interviewed in the news report were already in council flats. The single man they interviewed only waited three months.

I should move to Dagenham you say? I don't know anybody there. There are many reasons why I want to stay here. Why am I justifying myself anyway?

Signs

I've been rereading about angels this week. For many many years now I've asked the "World" for protection, particularly when I'm in a spot of bother. My belief in angels isn't a new thing but a few months ago I ordered a book on it from "Bethea" on the internet. It wasn't arriving and in the past, things I've bought from Bethea arrive quite quickly. It arrived on Tuesday, the day after I went to auction. Perfect timing you could say.

After I finished posting on here yesterday I felt I couldn't do anything but take myself to bed. The flat really does need de cluttering but I thought it could wait. I'd lie down and try and communicate with my personal angel. We all have one, according to the book. I wanted the angel to give me a sign.

I fell asleep.

When I woke up I thought I really ought to text a friend and go out that evening. I'd spent far too much time on my own. I thought of texting Hus, Milly, maybe just go to the cinema with Em? I fell back to sleep.

Some time later my mobile rang. It was Sam, a fellow stigmum. Did I have my son with me? She was thinking of taking her two children to the Heath and she really needed a drink as well. I told her he wasn't but I'd be happy to meet her. We arranged to meet at the Bull and Last on Highgate Road at 4 o'clock.

I didn't have any money so I went to the cashpoint in Queens Crescent. Then remembering my post on facebook this morning: "Why is it cigarettes are always the answer?" and a friend responding with "I thought smarties were always the answer", I decided to pop into the shop and get Sam's two kids a tube each. I couldn't see any, but there were "the Milky Bars are on me!"

A man with a basket of goods let me go before him and as I paid for the chocolate I became aware of the music playing. I focused on listening to what it was. "I'll stand by you, I'll stand by you. Won't let nobody hurt you, I'll stand by you. Take me in, into your darkest hour and I'll never desert you, I'll stand by you." (Girls Aloud version)

Angels send signs in all kinds of ways and it's true, when you receive one, you do feel a wash of calm.
If I bid at auction, I'm not going in on my own.
And as it turned out, Sam was ideal company.

The weight of ideas

Ideas are all very well to have but to be executed with any success the heart and mind has to be in compliance or maaaaaaaaaaaaan, the thought of it is hard. That's where I am. I'm trying to chill out, take rescue remedy, anything to quell the emotions that crash and bang and swirl within me.

My heart has long desired a two bedroom flat for my son and myself. A garden would be nice, not having to haul the bike up and down, nicer. Has long desired to be out of this situation, off the waiting list. My heart has long desired to go home, the bricks and mortar kind.

My head has told me to write letters, which I've done, talk to people who might help, which I've done, talk to lawyers, which I've done, all with no success. Now my heart is telling me to bid for a property and well, I don't know where the law stands. I don't know what kind of trouble I might get into, I don't know, in truth, what might happen if I go through with it. I don't know how it will affect my son.

I'm no stranger to ideas. In my twenties my heart was set on going to Chile but suddenly Japan popped into my head. Japan? I didn't want to go to Japan! What did I want to go to Japan for? But the thought, it wouldn't let go. I fought the thought, flipped a coin. Best of three.

Before I flew out I felt much like I'm feeling now.

Same with the idea to return home overland. On my own. Through Asia. On my own. Through China. On my own. Russia, Eastern Europe. On my own. Here my head told me to take a plane to London but my heart wanted to walk, take buses, boats and trains but I was scared. I was so scared. I didn't eat the whole week before I flew to Bali. I couldn't. I was crapping it.

This is different though. Back then, nobody cared what I did.
This time, I know that's what happening in the borough where I live is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I care what I do because it could have positive repurcussions on the borough. I care what I do because it impacts my son. Whether I succeed or fail it impacts my son. My Son my Sun my Son.

What's the alternative? To remain living with rent I cannot afford with the threat of eviction hanging over my boy? This journey has to stop, it's time for this journey to stop. I so desire this journey to stop. This is a way of stopping it.

Off I go to auction

I went to the public auction of Camden's council houses and flats today as I've been thinking of bidding for one.

One of the six properties up for grabs to private developers was a six bedroom house near my son's school. Location perfect as it wouldn't interrupt his education but we don't need six bedrooms. What a political point that would make though. Can you imagine? The council says it doesn't have any large properties for big families and there I am having just bought one.

Just prior to going I went to the local press and asked a journalist I'd met before where it was happening, at what time and also what I planned to do.

"You're not planning to use the press to do this are you?" and I told him "there's a part of me that doesn't want the press there at all."

The auction was taking place in Piccadilly in the Bafta building. Things are never as you imagine. I imagined a room full of men, slick property developers (though where I got that image I do not know). I walked in and along one table were all print outs of the 'lots' for sale. I looked for Roderick Road. Lot 12. I had plenty of time before picking my son up from school.

Men and women of all descriptions milled around. Of course this wasn't just the sale of council flats, there were all those repossessed properties, whose previous owners were no doubt gutted they couldn't buy back their homes at a bargain price.

I got chatting to two private developers and asked them what they thought about the council auctioning off its properties. "If people want to buy it they should be able to buy it," he said. "It's no different from the Right to Buy."

"Yes it is!" I said. "Right to buy is symbolic of a secure tenancy for people. What do you think of these sales given that there are 1000's of people on the waiting list needing these homes?"
"Haven't thought about it to be honest," said his pal.

There was free tea and coffee but I was already zinging from the espressos I'd drank as I'd thought and thought and thought again whether what I planned to do was the right thing to do.

The bidding began. One bearded man with the hammer and two either side of him who would field the bids.

The first council flat up for grabs was a one bedroom garden flat. "Lot 3". Up the bidding rose, £150,000 and soon to £176,000. "Are we all done?" said the auctioneer. "Is there any better than £207,000?" It seemed so, the hammer went down at £209,000.

Lot 9 was the next Camden property, a six bedroom place with a garden and cellar. "We're opening the bidding at £500,000, £500,000..." It was like watching a game of ping pong, two people pitted against one another, then as one said "no" another bidder would pop up and keep the game going. 910,920, up up up, I looked to my left where I couldn't see the bidder then back to my right where he was tall with silver hair. He stopped at £1,000,000. The flat went to a couple for £1.1 million.

I approached them afterwards and congratulated them on their successful bid. I asked them what they'd do with it to which they replied they'd develop it for the rental market. They said they weren't allowed to live in it - a condition of the sale. I didn't know they weren't allowed to live in it themselves. It's so the council can put the likes of me in there afterwards under its Private Rental Scheme. A sweet deal for these developers and private landlords. The state will pay the mortgage and give them a little extra for taking us in the first place.

When I asked what they thought of what the council was doing, the woman said "no comment". I asked if they agreed with the council continuing to auction flats with the vast numbers on the waiting list and must have pricked the man's conscience as he said "I didn't know, I've never done this before. The council got a good price, they made £200,000 more than they would on the private market." And that makes it ok does it? I didn't say that though. That's the argument I should have with Nail'er.

Lot 12 was the one I'd had my eye on. I thought it was a six bedroom house but the auctioneer said: "This one's been kitted out as a hostel." My instincts went all over the place. I couldn't bid for this. I would be saying it's perfectly alright to have children living in hostels. I was tempted to raise my hand, see what that felt like, but the bidding was progressing so much slower than Grenille Road that I was quite afraid it would stop with me when I didn't want it.

"£690, a very cheap house, any advance on £690?" It went for £725,000 in the end. A 'middle class' woman got up from a seat saying "I wish I had money, a bargain that one," to which the younger man who'd been standing beside me said "It would've got more if it were empty."

I kept thinking they've just sold a hostel when yesterday St Mungo's released research that street homelessness has risen by 15% in London.

I am tempted to go back and bid for one. I will do as the journalist suggested and get some advice first. When I do it, I will invite the local press. Earlier when I was waiting for him to come downstairs with information about the auctions a song popped into my head.

"I'm just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood (Nina Simone)

I smiled to myself. Is that my song for this? It won't be easy. I will have to be incredibly brave and incredibly strong because the auctioneers will want me led away like a nutter. If I don't win the lottery then I have to do this. And if I do this, I have to make the point for everyone else.