This is a merge of my 'Wanderer' blog that tells of two years of my three years on the streets, and a new blog that tells of my life after the Diocese of Winchester ripped through my life for for the last few years on top of the previous serious harm that left me homeless
This is a day to day blog of my life as I continue to survive, work on recovery and on the social problems that I have and try to come to terms with limitless traumas I have survived along the way.
This blog is in tandem with my blog about my experiences in the Church of England

The former name of this blog and the name of it's sister blog are to do with my sense of humour, which I hope to keep to the end, which appears to be ever more rapidly approaching. At least I laughed, and I laughed at the people who were destroying me. Don't forget that.

Here are my books, which I wrote for you if you would like to know more:

Sunday, 8 January 2012

The main library closed at 5pm and I didn't fancy hanging around in the hot little library where you have to stand up to use the limited computers for 15 or 30 minutes at a time as I am doing now.

So I went to the bed and breakfast, which is an indulgence. On the way I met V. twice, the first time he was on the steps and he happily told me about a fight he had had and how he had slammed someone to the floor. I told him he would be useful to deal with the youth who were calling me shit, he said if I just pointed the ****'s out he would deal with them, then he told me that he was working with the police, and I said 'so I will see you at the market with them at bacon roll time?' and he said 'It's funny they are eating themselves', because in english slang police are called pigs, 'cannibals' I agreed.
Then when I crossed the market he was at the cash machine, he was wearing a radio and was on 'first responder' duty, he had a gang of giggling girls following him about.

He asked how much food I had and I told him I was ok for food and things, but he gave me £4 for supper, he said he had found £10 outside Tesco earlier.

I went to the bed and breakfast and sorted my backpack out in an attempt to make it lighter.
I had a bath and slept for twelve hours, I dreamed despairing dreams about church and home and being able to run again. I woke up feeling desparate.

I had a shower and wandered towards church, I had missed the service and waited outside to go in for coffee anyway.
The priest came out first, he told me that he had spoken to the council and they were going to remove my bags from the shrub, I refrained from calling him a bastard and simply said something about Jesus instead and went into church, my friends were there and I told them what had happened.
One of them went to find the priest and 'have a word' and the others stopped to discuss the situation, one had brought me a trolley with a sleeping bag and blanket in, but with nowhere to store things and none of my friends having a garden or shed or anything that was easily accesible there were no solutions.

My friend came back from speaking to the priest and she said he was going to phone the council and ask them to turn a blind eye on my bags for a while. She said that the priest would like to chat to me but I said no, chatting with priests is something that I hate doing more than anything and cannot do.
I told them about the homeless man in London who was stabbed and scalded by a vicar who didn't want the homeless man there.
Think about that? A vicar doing that to a homeless man! A priest having a homeless girl's bedding removed by the council and thrown away! what are churches and priests for?
But my friends said over and over again 'we are the church', and they are, the priest there would be lost without them. They are going top sort and tidy my bags to make them inconspicuous while we find another home for them.
I walked down to another religeous meeting house and spoke to them and they granted a possible permission of space for my bags in their grounds, I will find out on Tuesday.
Here I am standing up and typing.

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