Eating Fruit

The hairdresser started it. As you know, Thursday's are a difficult day for me so I trooped off to the newsagent after the school run to see if I had a winning lottery ticket. I didn't.

"Imagine life is a fruit bowl," said the hairdresser whose shop is just next door. I told him it was bidding day you see. "You have eaten all the fruit from your bowl, there is nothing left. You have to find a new bowl, eat different fruit, and then you will be successful."

"What fruit, what? I wrote to the Libdem people saying I was all out of ideas. I spoke to the leader of the council."

"You have to find a different way, the right way for you. This area doesn't want you. It is evicting you, it's telling you to leave Maybe you have to start again, go back to your parents, they will care for you."

"I can't," I wobbled as my eyes were pricked and began to water.

"Of course you can. You're parents can help you. You need to eat different fruit!"

I tried to laugh to halt the stem of tears, at the same time imagining the little room my son and I share there, his blow-up mattress by my bed. Fine for convalesence for a few days, but for months, years... a home, all I want, our home.

I walked away, turning my head so the blue sky would dry my eyes and heard "Sue?" It was Molly, the mum who spent six years in a hostel. "Are you ok?" and I nodded yes as the tears fell free fall and she gave me a hug, because she knows what it's like.

My hairdresser's right. North London doesn't want me. Nothing but evictions since I moved here 8 years ago. Where does want me though? Where? What bowl of fruit?

I had, I am jam on toast. Strawberry. Wrong fruit.