‘…Just show, a little love…’
Sunday 16th February, 2020
Reporting, Base Camp, Tottenham, London
Woman’s Politics Weekly: RAW: No Smoke Without Fire (!)
This week, in ‘Woman’s Politics Weekly: RAW’ I recall, how my friend * accidentally (?) melted my kettle onto my hob.
“…If * is really a ‘punter’, how come he can’t even make a cup of tea (?)…”
“…Maybe that is why he is a punter (?)…”
“OMG * (!) there are bigger priorities in the world, than your crack habit (!)” I scream.
The landlord walks in, to check the boiler. Fuck.
They see a ‘Rastafarian’, wearing a bowler hat, who literally looks like, his dreads could go up in flames, at any moment, bend the skirting board around my door, before making a quick and slippery exit.
Breaking my door.
Leaving a trail, of melted black plastic, behind him.
I look like, I have dropped out, of the ceiling.
“If she brings another crack head around here, I’m calling my mum (!)” I hear Flat 5 scream.
Why are all the black men I bring around here, a ‘crack head’ according to that bitch in Flat 5, who refuses to speak in actual person (?)
At the same time, the smiley face that * has somehow created, in melted plastic, now stuck to my new mattress protector, gives me slight comfort, when I have to walk home, late at night.
I know * is protecting me, somehow, in the side lines.
I need a community space, for my rehabilitation sessions.
I usually do cooking with my clients, that seems to be the only thing that can distract them and delay, smoking.
After finding out I had been stabbed in the head, the best * can do, is pretend he is hurting, just as badly.
After being attacked, by a fellow resident, with a fire extinguisher, shortly before Christmas, at his residence at St Mungo’s, I told *, to behave himself.
“…What you doing smoking Crack and Heroine in your room, you’d loose your flat…”
“…At the same time, I think you’re pretty clever, smoking Class A drugs in your shared accommodation, without the in house staff knowing (?)…”
“…Probably, that’s the only reason he even got a flat…” but we pretend, nonetheless.
“If you want that flat, you better behave yourself *”.
One day * will go to rehab, in his own time.
He likes cooking, and growing vegetables, courgettes and cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs and flowers in the garden at St Mungo’s.
In his spare time, he is good at getting things for free or near cheap, having lived a life, on the street, for near enough over a decade, about 15 years, squatting, in Lime house apparently.
He makes really good ginger, garlic, and lemon juice, which we drink when I am sick, in the winter time.
He is from Tottenham, and has Jamaican roots.
‘Everyman’s struggle is the worst’ -Bob Marley.
Taking life one step at a time: * and the Psychologist.
This week in Woman’s Politics Weekly: RAW’, I decided, to go along with my friend * to his weekly psychology meetings at St Ann’s Hospital.
* has been going to appointments at St Ann’s hospital, for seventeen years and he is still too scared, to walk up my stairs.
“What the f*ck is going on yer, seventeen years, and * still can’t walk up my stairs,” I shout at *’s Psychologist, Counsellor and Key Worker.
“What was your specialism ?” I ask him.
“Psychology”, he says.
He runs away.
Me and * chat over the phone the following day, I’m nervous as f*ck.
“…Sometimes you don’t need to do anything, just get Jenny the journalist to pay them a visit (!) ha ha ha…”
“…I didn’t realise I was that powerful…”
A week later, and * has a referral and 10 additional, one-to-one counselling sessions for his anxiety at St Ann’s hospital.
He also has support from One Support, a sort of social services service.
* now wants to start his own business, and to train, as a reflexologist.
Just show, a little love.
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