Social worker to the rescue

She called last week saying she wanted to come round on Monday, yesterday. I'd told her that I might not be in, or I might be hungover (for I'd planned to get totally fucked hadn't I?)

Yesterday morning I hoped she would call as I put 14 green bottles into a bag for recycling.

"I'm so glad you've called," I said, when she did around midday. "Did you know my son's father was going to issue me with a court order? Your name is on it."

She said she'd be round in about an hour, and she was.

I told her I was angry with her the last time she came. I had to be honest. She had called me again because the New Support Worker had got in touch with her.

We talked. Or rather, I talked. She listened and listened and commented where comments needed to be made.

My past, whoosh, poured infront of her.

I showed her the court order and said I wouldn't be attending. Not now, I couldn't. Not ever, I didn't want to. She said I wasn't "emotionally strong enough to deal with it at the moment" and I wanted to hug her.

She said I needed to get advice from a lawyer, find out just what he could do with the parental responsibility order. Could he bring my son home late without my consent? "He's done that before," I said, "without it." "Find out," she said.

I showed her my two articles from the Ham & High and Camden New Journal. She said it would make the council nervous. I read to her draft letters I'd written to Dobbie, the photocopy of the letter to David Cameron.

I tried to make her understand how important all this was to me. She understood.

"Please can you put us forward to the exceptions panel?" I asked.
"Social workers don't have a strong relationship with the housing division," she said, or something like that.
"You would be the fourth person. Three others have tried and failed. If I meet Cameron, I'm going to ask him to do that too. Tell him I won't tell anyone if he does."

She said she needed to know my mental health history. Could she have my permission to talk to my doctor?

"I haven't seen my doctor in months", I told her. "She tells me to "think positively", think about other things and well, I'm obsessed, I can't." She told me not to worry about that.

She said she'd see what she could do for me and my son. I said that was all I could ask of her.

She is a lovely woman. Not only because she's going to try and help us, but because she didn't judge my mess, she said the flat was too small for us. She recognised the bond that exists between myself and my son and looking around at all his pictures on all my walls, suggested Art Therapy for him.

That would be perfect for him, my little boy, who struggles with the pain of separated parents but rarely lets it show.

Social worker? Thank you.