11.06.14 (Day 171, still)
With hindsight (which is a fine thing, with hindsight), I did rather enjoy getting back into what was once an old routine today.
I’d not been into McDonald’s for several weeks, yet all of the staff I know were as welcoming as always. Having no electricity meant that I had to revert to the old practice of charging my phone at the friendly local newsagent. Having been under effective house arrest for the last few weeks has meant that I’ve hardly dare venture out, for fear of our little place being lost. Following the most recent visit from the property owner and the police though, there was little to lose and I was obliged by circumstance to venture out. I’m glad I did.
As well as attending to practical matters, I even found time to rest in the sun by the river with a few old friends. I was back.
I shall need to do it again as well, as I need to charge my phone and netbook. I’m also re-engaged with CRI (West Kent Recovery), so I’ll need to start making regular visits back there. That said, as of tonight, a fellow client with whom I have a history has found out about my return, issued threats and told me not to go back. This was meant to have been dealt with the last time it happened. I shall ignore the threats and return anyway: another place to face the music.
By law (there was a police involvement in my relationship with the person who doesn’t want me there), we are not permitted to be in the same building at the same time. We’ll both be there on Monday. Their problem, not mine.
As I’m back on the scene (in town) and no longer so apprehensive to go out, and as I’m saving money on tobacco by having a regular cheap supply coming in, I feel the pull of some retail therapy tomorrow. As I approach the end of Volume Five of my hand-written journals, this one being just a cheap notebook, I may treat myself to a leather-bound writing pad, like those I used to use, for Volume Six. My cheap pens keep walking and have become a false economy. I have a Parker pen, courtesy of my mum, so I shall buy some refills. My mum’s Parker pen (from Harrods) is one of the things I guard like a dog would, along with my phone, baccy tin and lighter (the one encased in a live shotgun cartridge). And my friends and family. And the girlfriends who come and go.
I’m drinking (really) from a bright orange beaker. It matches my Lifeguard hoodie and my business cards. I’ve just found one of the latter on my desk and noticed that someone has written on it: after my phone number, they’ve written “Talk to him”; after my email, “Write to him”; and after my web address, “Read about him.”
One of the young family members took the trouble to read the blog today and gave me some welcome positive feedback. Comments like hers give me encouragement, unlike the negative comments I’ve had before and which put me off of writing. If you can’t say something nice, don’t bother. Cast the first stone and my family will come back with a wall.
My foster thing – The Courts – is crashed out. She decided to stay here tonight and I shan’t deny that I’m glad. She’s safe with me.
The very subject of me having a young person in my care (where she feels safe and the authorities know she’s here) will cause chins to wag. I don’t care. I know in my heart what is right, even though others don’t get it. So bite me.
Tomorrow, me and my young charge will go for a coffee together. We’ll be looked at and talked about. Not our problem.
We’ll wake up, smell the coffee and face the music.
We just found one of our number crashed in the garden. We’ve brought him in and now he’s out for the count in the living room with The Courts. He’s one of us and she’s safe. Safe with us.
Everyone’s going to sleep soon but the daddy and uncles will take it in turns to sit up and watch over our little girl. She can take care of herself but we just like to make sure. She’s young. She’s safe with us.
Someone asked me recently how well I know my little friend; how long we’ve known one another: six months. The interrogator didn’t think that anything like long enough to build a relationship such as ours. As I pointed out, it takes five minutes out here to build a relationship which would take five years to build on the other side. Trust and respect is what we’re about.
And harmony. Hear the music. Hear our words. Heed them. To not do so is to dance with the Devil. To the music of chance.