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.