Once upon a time

Standing there I wondered how much of what we had

felt on the bridge was just hunger. I asked my wife and

she said, 'I don't know, Tatie. There are so many sorts

of hunger. In the spring there are more. But that's

gone now. Memory is hunger.'

As I walk into the steamy hall I am overcome by both noise and smell. Voices screech and purr and frying sausages spit at the walls of the tiny kitchen and I walk around a spreading puddle of tea on the dirty linoleum floor before taking up my place at the counter that divides us from them. I breathe deep and for a moment the comforting haze of imminent nourishment I sign both my name and Gwydian's and proceed to find an empty seat where we can sit comfortably with Boo. . Another second and the reek of urine and tobacco behind me and I am nauseated.   We make our way to the corner of the room with two windows (which are both filled; the body in the right hand corner, his grimy jeans all that I can see, shouts down at his friend to confirm a later drug exchange, and the body out the left hand window is smoking - smoking what I am not quite sure) and we sit down. We wait for our names to be called as we glance around the room.  We are the 'newbies' so no one really bothers us, though I hear talk of 'the Americans' in the other dining area. Shivering, I decide against asking if one of the boys will close a window and instead decide to head to the back room to see if there are any sweaters on offer. This is a regular part of the day, the closest I get to shopping. I suppose it is sort of like a sample sale, everyone grabs for the best they can find out the donated items heaped up in the back room of the 'Centre'.  Most go on to sell them, either on the  street, online, or to a local charity shop; given the quality I imagine they make a bit of coin. St, Albans is quite an affluent town. Sometimes you can get really lucky; I have found a beautiful Ed Hardy tee-shirt and a designer raincoat. Unfortunately the pair of navy blue and cream polka dot wedge heels (really it did work!) I adore  are in a size nine, not even close to my size, even if I pad them. Damn! But then I unearth a pair of knee-high leather boots that only need a good polishing and they fit perfectly now that I have not eaten in a few days and walked to town and back from the edge of St. Albans. Not that I am going anywhere to dress up, that I can wear these items. I need a sweater and if anything a pair of wellies. I can't walk in heels anyway, it's way too painful, not to mention impractical.  I find a big, comfy sweatshirt, only missing it's tie. Generally I wouldn't step foot out of the house in an outfit that screamed chav, but given I don't have a house to step out of I suppose it doesn't matter.

I am the only girl among around fifteen guys. It is hard to tell who is the 'in' crowd but I soon am aquainted with who seems to be the 'top dog',  his bad 'gangsta rap' screaming out of the tiny speakers of his phone (how does a homeless person wind up with a £400 pound phone?! Sorry stupid question I suppose, moving on…) the tinniness of the sound scratches at my brain and makes me wince. That is until someone lurches in the door and straight into me, covering me in hot coffee, My senses are reeling…

All I Want for Christmas

Merry Christmas,

I cannot believe it, once again the holiday season finds us with no reasons to be jolly. All I wanted for Christmas this year was for us three to be healthy, happy, to finally be granted our visa, and with it the ability to work hard, and pay taxes, and contribute to our community here in England, to repay those who have given so much to us, to finally be able to live, to create our art inspired by the UK, to enjoy this season after so many years of hellish fighting. But,  I fear our battle with the Home Office has finally destroyed us, we can take no more. I am bruised, battered, beaten and have no hope left for ever regaining our lives, we have lost too much, we have experienced too much - we will never be the same. We are now to face forced 'voluntary' leave, to lose the lives we have fought so hard to save here, and not only are we forced to leave, but to be banned from returning for years, for the crime of fighting for our visa in the face of much turmoil, pain and desperation.  To leave behind the only family we now have, our friends here in the UK. We are being exiled for the crime of loving Great Britain and the temerity of fighting for it.

Of no matter were repeated submissions of medical evidence of my ever diminishing health, of my severe headaches, blackouts, sensory disturbances, severe back pain (that after all we have been thru now has me in a wheelchair should I need to go anywhere), PTSD symptoms (from being homeless and lost - read in older posts) severe anxiety, dangerous depression, nightmares, claustrophobia and unfortunately more medical issues I don't feel comfortable sharing , not a bit of care for the story of my traumatic family past that I painfully shared , and the loss of 5 immediate family members in the time we have been here, no compassion to my begging and pleading, of crying, of sharing all of our distressing story, no matter that we lost everything we spent our whole lives building - absolutely everything, as if a fire swept through our lives, there was no matter that we were forced to live rough, amongst criminals and drug addicts, particularly distressing and dangerous in the winter, no matter that we are shells of the people we once were, that there was no hope in the face of naively submitting immigrant volunteer programs ideas I was excited about and my sincere gushing of love for this country, it's people, it's culture (which was mocked), no account taken of poetry sent in a panic - meant to show our dedication to the inspiration of our adopted home, no difference that we have been here nearly 10 years - and it is our home!, That I told them this situation was killing me, their response was to the point - 'there is no proof you will actually die'.  Touche'

No amount of anything has helped though we despair and now Boo is not well. Boo has been my carer, my companion, my baby - she is now nearly 14 years old and needs ongoing medical care. Our story gets more and more difficult to tell each year and what we need is a Christmas miracle.

Regardless this post is about helping us to help Boo and rebuild.

If you would like to help Boo, please see the link below

https://www.gofundme.com/menyouandboo
https://www.gofundme.com/menyouandboo

I had started this gofundme months ago but did not actively seek donors due to embarrassment for our situation. But now we need all the help we can get.