If we end up in a hostel, there is something very very wrong with this system. Never let it be said that it's my choice to take my son to one. But if the council does put us there Allocations, and this is what I need an answer to; if we are and social services slam a protection order on my son, will this help us or will this harm us?
Part of an email sent to allocations this evening. I'd give you the whole lot but I'm fucking tired.
All I will say is I need an answer to it.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Taking my headache to the doctor
For over a month now I've been getting wierd 10 second bashes on the right side of my head. I can't take paracetamol because it's not a headache. Coupled with flaming feet - eczema has descended on them in the same literally bleeding way they did on my breasts when I lived in Japan, I booked a doctor's appointment two weeks ago.
"I've heard you've been offered a flat in Kilburn," says Doc when I sit down.
"Wow, that was quick," I answer.
She said my son's social worker called her (she knew I was seeing her because I told her when she called yesterday morning). Doc was told to tell me that if I don't take the flat in Kilburn then the council will place my son and I in a hostel and if that happens the social services will put my son on the child protection register.
Yes, you read me right
They'll see my actions as one of an unfit mother. So said Doc.
What? I railed, I swore, I cried through all my rantings. That's blackmail I told her. It's the choices I have she replied. "There's no such thing as an ideal world"
"An ideal world?" railed I. "An ideal world is one where I've got a nice job and a rich husband and I live in a house that's mine and I can't get evicted from."
"Oh well that's everyone's ideal," she countered.
"What?" I could only splutter. What's her situation?
"I should take your blood pressure but it's probably sky high," she says.
I left her surgery sobbing, Hard, raw, gutteral sobs.
Sat with Nico Teen by Zat locked bike and sobbed some more.
Lucky enough to run into two lovely mums as I went to buy wrapping paper. Both have survived housing problems with the council in the past
They were both pretty incredulous. There is comfort in that. There is a lot of comfort in that.
"They don't care," said C's mum. "The council don't care at all. You should go up to them, whoever they are and shove that wrapping paper up their arse!"
It's like a heart beat. That's what it's like, the 10 second throb. And it's not 10 seconds at all. It's more like 3. Doc said it was "probably tension headaches." I hope that's all it is. I get them when I'm not stressed too. Right now I've got a real headache, you know, all over.
She said she'd got a referal that I be put through to CBT but said: "You've been down that route and now I think you're just being pushed from pillar to post." She didn't suggest anything else. She didn't say to come back if I need to chat.
She never got to see my flaming feet.
She won't get to see me ever again.
I've spent the night writing to allocations. I'll never post it. Too long. I was writing into a void, just like I am now.
Bad mother...
No-one to talk to but you stiggers.
"I've heard you've been offered a flat in Kilburn," says Doc when I sit down.
"Wow, that was quick," I answer.
She said my son's social worker called her (she knew I was seeing her because I told her when she called yesterday morning). Doc was told to tell me that if I don't take the flat in Kilburn then the council will place my son and I in a hostel and if that happens the social services will put my son on the child protection register.
Yes, you read me right
They'll see my actions as one of an unfit mother. So said Doc.
What? I railed, I swore, I cried through all my rantings. That's blackmail I told her. It's the choices I have she replied. "There's no such thing as an ideal world"
"An ideal world?" railed I. "An ideal world is one where I've got a nice job and a rich husband and I live in a house that's mine and I can't get evicted from."
"Oh well that's everyone's ideal," she countered.
"What?" I could only splutter. What's her situation?
"I should take your blood pressure but it's probably sky high," she says.
I left her surgery sobbing, Hard, raw, gutteral sobs.
Sat with Nico Teen by Zat locked bike and sobbed some more.
Lucky enough to run into two lovely mums as I went to buy wrapping paper. Both have survived housing problems with the council in the past
They were both pretty incredulous. There is comfort in that. There is a lot of comfort in that.
"They don't care," said C's mum. "The council don't care at all. You should go up to them, whoever they are and shove that wrapping paper up their arse!"
It's like a heart beat. That's what it's like, the 10 second throb. And it's not 10 seconds at all. It's more like 3. Doc said it was "probably tension headaches." I hope that's all it is. I get them when I'm not stressed too. Right now I've got a real headache, you know, all over.
She said she'd got a referal that I be put through to CBT but said: "You've been down that route and now I think you're just being pushed from pillar to post." She didn't suggest anything else. She didn't say to come back if I need to chat.
She never got to see my flaming feet.
She won't get to see me ever again.
I've spent the night writing to allocations. I'll never post it. Too long. I was writing into a void, just like I am now.
Bad mother...
No-one to talk to but you stiggers.
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.
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.
Monday, 27 September 2010
SamCam and the Labour Party
"Samantha Cameron, all that she is, for all that you are!" Did you see the Sunday Times telly ads running all last week?
Sunday night the penny dropped. Tis no coincidence!
The Tories secret weapon is their only weapon.
SamCam, I do not doubt, is a lovely woman, but I'm a policy chick.
Saturday I was with the politician who said "David with my head, Ed with my heart."
Is it too much to ask, too much that the Milibands rule together?
Perhaps, but I hope, I hope....
Oh Brother...
Sunday night the penny dropped. Tis no coincidence!
The Tories secret weapon is their only weapon.
SamCam, I do not doubt, is a lovely woman, but I'm a policy chick.
Saturday I was with the politician who said "David with my head, Ed with my heart."
Is it too much to ask, too much that the Milibands rule together?
Perhaps, but I hope, I hope....
Oh Brother...
Saturday's revolutionary street protest
I set my alarm early on Saturday morning, lay face down in the bath (Al Cohol was not the answer on Friday night, but is it ever really?), then plastered makeup on my tired face until my reflection looked back at me and said "Yes! Go forth Stiggers!"
Only five minutes late I thought the protest would be in full swing. Dozens of fellow protesters (I was being realistic about just how many hundreds could fit outside Somerfields) some with banners, making a noise.
Heh heh heh. We were three.
A pensioner, a politician and me. Then one more woman showed up.
Minutes past, then more minutes and more.
"We are the revolution!" cheered the pensioner.
I mean you have to laugh, even the organisers didn't show up!
All at the Labour conference party perhaps. The politician (a councillor but let's go with the P's here) said she'd voted for Ed Miliband.
"Oh brother. I didn't know so I didn't vote," said I.
"Are you a member?" she asked.
"Only of my own party."
I laughed, which was good, because I needed to.
The group dispersed, I went home and switched on the telly.
Oh Brother...
Only five minutes late I thought the protest would be in full swing. Dozens of fellow protesters (I was being realistic about just how many hundreds could fit outside Somerfields) some with banners, making a noise.
Heh heh heh. We were three.
A pensioner, a politician and me. Then one more woman showed up.
Minutes past, then more minutes and more.
"We are the revolution!" cheered the pensioner.
I mean you have to laugh, even the organisers didn't show up!
All at the Labour conference party perhaps. The politician (a councillor but let's go with the P's here) said she'd voted for Ed Miliband.
"Oh brother. I didn't know so I didn't vote," said I.
"Are you a member?" she asked.
"Only of my own party."
I laughed, which was good, because I needed to.
The group dispersed, I went home and switched on the telly.
Oh Brother...
Friday, 24 September 2010
Haiku to Self
For flips sake cheer up
you're doing yourself real harm
try and feel grateful
My son my sun son
My son my beautiful son
What future have we?
AAARGH shake out of it
Nico Teen's not the answer
just snap out of it
you're doing yourself real harm
try and feel grateful
My son my sun son
My son my beautiful son
What future have we?
AAARGH shake out of it
Nico Teen's not the answer
just snap out of it
This Morning
A full five hours yesterday I braced myself. A full five and for the first time in living history, definitely anyway since I've become a mother, I watched This Morning on tv.
This Morning! Even as a student I never put my feet up to that. Something seriously going wrong methought.
Paralysed I was. I've been told that some people have been housed by calling the council everyday. Every day until the council are so fecking fed up they actually house the person. Should I try that?
This won't happen with me. The housing division has something truly against me and any effort I make is not worth the effort in the first place and this would only result in a monumental high telephone bill.
So there was whatsisname and whatsername chatting on the telly while I sat on the sofa looking at the carnage which is paper and folders and odd socks and stuff my son has made strewn over the floor, and the number I should call written bold on the laptop.
Five hours, five hours later I called, going round the proverbial houses before I was put through to the flipping impotent homeless households division.
I asked them if they wanted me to follow Jennyfer Spencer into the grave.
Wouldn't it be funny.. wouldn't it be fecking hilarious.. if I died. It might make the news, all my appeals for help and there would the council be, making all its flipping excuses "oh we did no wrong, oh we did no wrong" and then possibly the bigger story that there were two known deaths due to housing now.
Sorry to admit I plunged into a pit of darkness afterwards. I know I should call again but I don't want to waste another five hours mustering up the will.
Jennyfer Spencer ran out of will. She didn't make the news. Why not? Why didn't she? She left a flipping note, attributed her death to housing policy.
I shall call again, even though it's as pointless as the points they issue us.
Telly's off. There's no This Morning for me this morning. It's a major distraction, which is cool, but doesn't actually achieve anything because I am actually nothing but a corpse with a pulse.
Aaargh, I've never been this bad before, totally and utterly incapable. Well not consciously anyway.
Snap out of it, snap out of it but Do Not Break.
Oh I don't know if I'll bother calling afterall...
This Morning! Even as a student I never put my feet up to that. Something seriously going wrong methought.
Paralysed I was. I've been told that some people have been housed by calling the council everyday. Every day until the council are so fecking fed up they actually house the person. Should I try that?
This won't happen with me. The housing division has something truly against me and any effort I make is not worth the effort in the first place and this would only result in a monumental high telephone bill.
So there was whatsisname and whatsername chatting on the telly while I sat on the sofa looking at the carnage which is paper and folders and odd socks and stuff my son has made strewn over the floor, and the number I should call written bold on the laptop.
Five hours, five hours later I called, going round the proverbial houses before I was put through to the flipping impotent homeless households division.
I asked them if they wanted me to follow Jennyfer Spencer into the grave.
Wouldn't it be funny.. wouldn't it be fecking hilarious.. if I died. It might make the news, all my appeals for help and there would the council be, making all its flipping excuses "oh we did no wrong, oh we did no wrong" and then possibly the bigger story that there were two known deaths due to housing now.
Sorry to admit I plunged into a pit of darkness afterwards. I know I should call again but I don't want to waste another five hours mustering up the will.
Jennyfer Spencer ran out of will. She didn't make the news. Why not? Why didn't she? She left a flipping note, attributed her death to housing policy.
I shall call again, even though it's as pointless as the points they issue us.
Telly's off. There's no This Morning for me this morning. It's a major distraction, which is cool, but doesn't actually achieve anything because I am actually nothing but a corpse with a pulse.
Aaargh, I've never been this bad before, totally and utterly incapable. Well not consciously anyway.
Snap out of it, snap out of it but Do Not Break.
Oh I don't know if I'll bother calling afterall...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
