P = Paranoia

With a plan as big and as vast as my Pomegranite Plan, paranoia is bound to come into it but I didn't think it would do so quite so soon.

Lazing in dream world in the flat on such a warm day as today, I told myself to go out onto the Heath. My dreams are lovely there. Full of hope.

The prize that will pop out of the Pomegranite, should I be successful, is not for me. That's alright, it's a challenge. The money for my Big Issue Walk wasn't for me either.

The Press wasn't involved in my Big Issue Walk.

If it was me and the local press going after the cash it might be ok, but it's not, it's just me. The local press will report it. That's ok, I like them, I'd like to help them. Wouldn't good news be nice to report and good news of that magnitude: £283m in times of "austerity" for Camden's long bullied and battered heart?

It's just me.
Just me.
No union behind me, no association of any kind. Not even a friend saying "yeah, go for it!" Just me. Crazy, nutty, desperate, me.
I'd quite like to meet Cameron and Clegg and ask for it. I've met one of them, I've written to both of them, what's the big deal?
At that level? When that's how high I'm prepared to take it?

Exposure.

My Advice Man nearly made me cry when I met him on Sunday. He said:
"You're so desperate. I've never met anyone as desperate as you. I wish I knew how I could help you."
That word, desperate, stung (yes thank you stiggers, I know there's a P in that)
"You can't help me," I'd replied. "No-one can."
Later I said to him: "I know I'm desperate so I should use that. I should use it to get the £368 million." Fighting talk rrrrah!
"If you get that you can have the front page," he said and I laughed because if anyone should know I don't want, I don't like, exposure, it's him.

Do I mind the borough knowing I'm desperate? Not really. In my mind we all are, 18000 is alot you know and there have been two deaths in recent weeks, Jennyfer Spencer and Tony.

Do I mind the nation knowing I'm desperate? Fuck yes. These politicians are going to hang me out to dry (Oh yes, my paranoia really did take root in the soil of Hampstead Heath this afternoon and went far, far, far down the plan.)

The housing division of the council are going to be pissed off I'm going to the papers (school social worker said as much, saying it could make things worse for me and my son for blowing the whistle on it when I saw her this afternoon)

It was all beginning to look pretty pants actually, my pomegranite plan.

Then I got a reprieve, that helped me breathe. Local journo emailed me and said he couldn't meet on Friday after all and was really sorry (Don't be!!)

I'm going to my MP's surgery on Saturday, which was my plan before I had a plan.

I'm going to ask him to get the money.

I was going to tell him to use the living me and the dead Jennyfer but I'll have to see how I feel.

I mean would you sacrifice yourself for money you wouldn't see a penny of?

Thought not.

My son, my sun, my boy, my buoy, I haven't forgotten you baby, you're the reason I can't give up. I'll give up when we move so I've got to do this, at least give it a shot, before we do.