Headaches

New support worker came round and having spent the morning in bed (oh my son! Wrapped me in his duvet and said "right, I'm going to watch Eastenders!") with a monumental headache, no tidying up had been done in our little flat in Papier Mache Towers.

In fact, I could do diddly squat, though I did manage to make him a cuppa tea when he arrived. He rang the mental health teams with who I have an appointment on Friday and cancelled it, because I have no childcare. That was nice, I hadn't got round to it yet.

He didn't know what would happen to me when the bailiff's order comes in, but said the council had read my articles. Couldn't tell me what they thought of them though. I told him I'd been commissioned to write a piece when it's all over. How angry should I be in my defeat piece? I feel pretty defeated now, I tell you.

You see, before he came, I met another guy from the council in the lift, in maintenance he said. He told me there were loads of empty properties near by, that I should find them then ask the council if they belonged to them.

Searching needles in haystacks I told him. How would I know what's empty in a tower, and how would I know what's not leaseheld in a street?

If I had energy I'd think what the hell and go and discover in my awaiting baliff desperation.

Headaches, honestly, they really get in the way of things. Tsk.