22.03.14 (Day 90)
I’m in the library having brunch: ham (not green) and eggs, reading the Saturday Guardian (there’s a lot of it) and planning computer time with the limited resources available (I can charge the netbook in the library but have limited web browsing. In McDonald’s it’s the opposite). The ideal solution would be Wetherspoons, where there’s one particular table next to a power point and ‘Spoons have free Wi-Fi. I pay my way and am not a total leech but upon visiting last night I found that they’ve moved the fucking table. Fortunately my friendly newsagent has offered to charge the netbook when required, provided I’m using it for things which are productive (I am and they are).
The removal of the table is just like most food establishments throwing out left over food and locking their bins, with the exception of Benjy’s, Pret, Marks and Spencer and Waitrose. Perfectly good food which someone like me could use to rustle something up given a means of cooking it. I realise that’s simplistic but it seems such a waste. My love of cooking and my ability to cook up something using whatever is available means that I could benefit my brethren given the resources. Spanish omelette, bubble & squeak and cottage / shepherd’s pie are specialities of mine. I don’t have recipes as I use what’s available. As well as so many other things (Dan and the kids being top of the list), cooking is what I miss the most, especially cooking for the kids and Dan. There’s so much else I miss about that life but I fucked it. I’ve said it before but I have to write as I think (or rather while I think). Although hindsight has its place (in the past), there’s little point in dwelling on it and it’s much better to look forward, or at least try to do so. When you’ve suffered my luck over the last three months and years though, looking forward is a big ask.
A wonderful lady from CAB who I met in church when I helped out said she’s happened upon (so much nicer a term than “come across”) very few people who’ve suffered as much as I have. But I’m just self-pitying of course. Not bitter (much).
I’m looking forward. Not to much but I still harbour the faintest glint of hope that one day I may get one of the lives I destroyed back. The one I want the most is that which I shared with Dan, in our beautiful flat in Sidcup, after she’d rescued me. I need rescuing again my Bunkey! The things we did; the things we had (material things which she still has and is looking after). We’ve moved on (and apart: coping mechanisms) but if I can keep hold of a little hope, that keeps me going; as does the hope that I may see my children before the six-month sentence imposed upon me by their mum is up. Few people realise that restrictions such as that imposed upon me are counter-productive.
Few (if any) in fact can appreciate how hard this process is and has been but I’m honest enough to admit that I largely brought it upon myself. A little more understanding would have been appreciated and helpful though, rather than the dismissals, misunderstanding, mistrust heaped upon me. I haven’t deserved anything like half of what I’ve had to deal with. But by cutting me off, people cope. And so do I.
Abuse, fear and fatigue are the main things. The list goes on – and so do I – and I’m at a point where I’m wondering if Tonbridge is perhaps not the best place for me at the moment. Bexley and Sidcup have obvious appeal, although my reception at either may be quite cool. I have connections in various parts of London and elsewhere that I could go to, so I might; even if just for a short break whilst I’m in limbo.
Last night, despite not being able to stay at Gilbert House, I somehow managed the relative luxury of six hours’ sleep, albeit broken, compared to the usual three. When you’re as tired as I am though, you just sleep and hope. Hope that you wake up but if you don’t, maybe that’s better.
I’m considering modes of transport for getting away.