The letter from the ex-Mother ship made it clear that I was pretty much banished for good, for reasons known best to herself and fellow poisoned kin. So they’ll not learn of my progress; something I’m making a lot of lately.
So it’s all arranged (after previous fuck-ups) and early next week, I move out of Gilbert Arse. I get my spare clothes and belongings that I’ve carried with me looked after by M and I stay in Tunbridge Wells overnight, over nights (hot meals too). During the day, I get free rail and bus tickets to get back to Tonbridge as it’s considered a safer environment for me.
Looking forward, I then get a care-of address (probably a church) to re-start the process of sorting out benefits and housing (never forget that I am officially ill and signed off by a GP). Then if the Small Sparks application is successful, lots of avenues to employment or resurrecting my old firm (or starting a new one) present themselves. If not, then I’m resourceful and as well as the library, M has pointed me toward other free-to-use IT facilities. I’m getting there; I will get there. Some will never know.
I’ve heard from my ex-fiance (the first one) and she’s going to look after my furniture and so on until I’m back on my feet (getting there; I will get there. some will never know). Very sweet I thought.
As for the ex-Mother Ship, she’s said that if I don’t collect the remainder of my books and clothes soon, she’ll give them to a charity shop: what a contrast.
We’re all dying: that’s an undeniable truth. I’m getting there; I will get there. Some will never know.
Including me of others’ demises.