Cycling in to view

Dawn. My son and I were viewing the flat at the break of day as the housing officer couldn't wait until after he'd finished school.

I was going to blog last night; not my fears (which visited later at 3am, as a parent you might know it, when the weight of responsibility sweeps upon you and you're grappling for something to hold on to and there's nothing, just the unknown and I thought myself lucky that at the foot of my bed I could hear my son breathing and that brought me back to where I was: in my own bed, mattress supporting my back, folds of the sheet between my fingertips)

No, I was going to blog my hopes; that this flat would be box shaped, not rectangular, which might mean there would be space for Zat bike..cluttering up the corridor my baby but safe at least.

Instead I wrote a letter. The local paper had on its front page a story about how the borough spends £720,000 a year housing just 20 families.

A great article, balanced, not an inflamed tory view, but I wanted to put my argument forward as well.

You know, they might not print it, probably won't - it's a bit long but hey, my big bro would be proud! Not once in my letter did I put "I" or "me" or "my situation". No "I" or "me" whatsover! I didn't think I could do that! I was tempted to put my address as "Between Houses" but that meant putting myself in the letter afterall so I just did it all properly.

It felt great to let go of myself like that. Like I said, bro, you'd be proud of me!