It’s Been Emotional

I’m going against some of my self-imposed rules of this blog by omitting the finer details of what’s gone on over the last few days. Certain things are still ongoing and therefore of uncertain conclusion. There are also others involved and although I wear my own heart on my sleeve, it would be unfair of me to speak of them. I have it all recorded in the hand-written journal and the details may well be included in future edits but for now, dogs must sleep.
Much of what I’ve written by hand over the last few days (17 A5 pages) was omitted from the blog but the last entry – a summary of salient points – alluded to subjects other than those which I’ve chosen to leave out for now. I shall go into further detail forthwith:
Housing is very much being addressed (see what I did there?) and the applications are in. There’s still much that I have to do besides and a lot of it I’d already done but my that work forms part of the story which I can’t yet reveal.
I’ve written letters to my children: proper, traditional, hand-written letters. I included a token gift with each as well. I shan’t reveal the contents of the letters until the kids have read them. I’ve addressed the letters to their mum so that she may peruse them before handing them on. There’s nothing I imagine being reducted though. It’s taken me this long to write to the kids as I was holding onto a faint glimmer of hope that I might see them sooner than the six-month exclusion imposed upon me (partly by myself). My children are one of the few things I wouldn’t normally procrastinate over but I was unsure of what to write in the letters. Being the wordy type, I was aware that I might write too much but at the same time I didn’t want to insult their intelligence by writing too little. In the event I feel I struck the right balance and each letter ran to just short of two sides of A5 paper, leaving just enough room to draw pictures (badly) for the youngest and set maths problems for the eldest (it’s what he enjoys doing). I didn’t want to entrust replies to any of my many forwarding addresses, as I rarely know when I might be at any of them. Instead I’ve suggested that any replies which may be forthcoming (and photos and drawings etc.) might be sent via mummy’s email, which I can receive almost anywhere. I look forward to any replies I may receive and hope that this may be the beginning of a regular exchange. I wish I’d started sooner as the correspondence will be a massive tonic (no gin) but I couldn’t find the words. As it’s turned out, every word is pretty much perfect.
Having written the letters over my morning coffee in McDonald’s (this was at 07.42), I required envelopes and stamps. Frugal as I am (have to be) and my own supply of stamps and envelopes forming part of the untold story, it was time to employ the on-board charm and the fact that I’m on first name terms with the manager of McDonald’s would help. He was on holiday but one of the staff (whom I’d not met before) sought to procure the required stationery from the office. Alas his status denied him access. And so he gave me the money for envelopes and stamps from his own pocket. I was already holding back the tears having written the letters but this act of kindness set me off. Sick of the constant rain as I am, I wish it would go away but for a moment on a rare dry day, I wished it was raining to hide my tears. I stepped outside for a cigarette and hoped that someone – anyone – I knew might pass, so that I had a friendly shoulder but none did. My mum passed on a bus but didn’t see me.
I’m at the railway station branch of Gilbert House Publishing (there’s also the Angel Centre, Wetherspoons, McDonald’s and the police station) and I’ve met a group of youngsters, some of whom I’ve met before. One of which said, “This is the guy I told you about”, to which a couple of his friends exclaimed: “You’re the writer! We’ve read your blog. You’re a legend!” Humouring me possibly.
Yes, I’m the writer; my chosen path. And at the railway station at least, I’m acknowledged (by the staff) as the poet and writer in-residence. And as well as CRI, my writing ambition has been recognised and will be supported by the re-homing team I met today.
Just one footnote to the unpublished part of the story: I don’t care about any of my belongings as much as my journals: could I have them back please?
My journals are literally my life: it’s been emotional.

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