Own Gaol

21.03.14 (Day 89)


Always the pedant, I like to spell what is commonly spelled “jail” (an Americanism) the English (correct) way.
I’m in my own gaol as I’ve had to move out of Gilbert House, at least temporarily. I made the foolish mistake of letting one of my housemates’ partners know where we stay and they’re a bit like myself and my ex were sometimes: explosive. So the bunker got bombed. I tried to remain man-in-the-middle but ended up very much man-in-the-middle, receiving verbal and physical abuse.
I’m in McDonald’s for a breakfast wrap: bacon and egg with ketchup today as yesterday it was sausage and egg with brown sauce.

Despite the recent switch from coffee, I’ve switched back today as I’ve had next to no sleep because of last night’s fireworks. I’m getting picked up in a minute from the church opposite McDonald’s to go to another church in Tunbridge Wells and help in the kitchen. The church runs  cookery courses for those with limited means  and I’ve volunteered to help tutor the next course as I’m recognised for being creative with a heat source and limited ingredients.

I emailed my mum following the rebuttal I received when I phoned to wish her and dad a happy wedding anniversary. I got a reply saying – among other things – that it will “take years” to rebuild bridges. I’m still not sure what  I did that was so bad to deserve this treatment (and from others too). Ever the diplomat, I pointed out that we may not have “many years”.


Lunch at the church is chicken and broccoli bake with Southern fried chicken on the side: very nice indeed as it happens. We just used tinned soup and some spices for the base sauce.

I’m going to lie low somewhere tonight. I’ve been asked to put a couple of friends up but I no longer have the means. And the people who destroyed Gilbert House were people I’d taken in too: own goal; own gaol.

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