Crack Mews

I got a call yesterday afternoon saying my son and I have been offered temporary accommodation. Nowhere near the areas my son has grown up and has friends, so no cycling distance from his school.

Upset I was, so so upset. An area further north, if it still is in the borough, it's at the very edge of it. At the moment we live closer to its heart, which is of course Camden Town.

Temporary. So not only a struggle to get the boy to school, and an expensive one if we can't get there by foot or bike, but we will also have to keep on bidding, bidding, bidding, bidding, for ever after or until the next eviction.

"Crack Mews?" I asked support worker when he told me. "Will there be easy drugs at hand then?" Seems I got the name wrong and it's not called that after all.

The email said to let them know if I'd let them know on Wednesday, if I agreed to see it on Thursday. On Thursday I have to say straight away if I want it or not.

There is no point going to see a place at this late stage in a game because you have to accept it or be damned. So it doesn't matter if it's nice, it doesn't matter if it's a shit hole.

Distraught I called my son's social worker. She said if I didn't take it we would be placed in a hostel.

What do I do when I fight the demons inside me? I write. I let pain bleed through a pen nib or through my fingers onto a key pad.

I replied to the earlier email that I didn't want to live in that area. I wrote what more temporary meant to me.

I added more names to who the supoort worker had already cc'd, including The Ed. I wrote that I was letting him know; the Camden New Journal got Jennyfer Spencer, the Ham and High could have me.

I cried and I cried and I cried because it's my son's birthday this week.

We all want the best for our children don't we? If we can't get the best, we must accept the next best? The next best is not what my son has been offered.

I remember finding out when I was pregnant. My relationship with the foca so new. He thought a termination would be better.

Damned if I do and damned if I don't, I thought at the time.

Here I am eight years later with those same words ringing in my head, but this time with the choices I've been given regarding housing.

I want to curl up foetally and eat my child.