November
Thursday, November 25, 2004
What a grumpy young weevil
Just looked at my last post and all I can say is there is a lot of ill feeling smouldering under the surface still. As I said Poor Husband, as I will call him at the mo, is stuck right in the middle and trying to vent my own spleen causes him hurt and distress. So please don't read this, PH.
As for the council house, how is it all going? Well the situation of the piss stained and litter strewn lobby is resolved, partially atleast - thanks to my neighbour. The place is still fairly grim as the council have allowed the external door to remain broken and kids use it as somewhere to shelter from the weather/be out of sight of meddlesome adults.
Inside, though, PH is cracking on. Toilet and two bedrooms have now been redecorated and the lounge diner is well on the way. We've done it all quite neutrally with a bit of a seventies thing going on in the l/d.
We've put ourselves down for an allotment and are no. 8 on a waiting list. Most of my plants are still at the old house, atleast they were. I do have fears that something might have happened to them. It doesn't matter with most of them but some were gifts from my dad who died almost two years ago.
Some are coming here for our balcony - this sounds much grander than it is. A climbing rose and a passion flower (unusual red one). The rest I hope to move to the allotment and have both a vegetable garden (my original intention) and a bit of a flower garden.
Anyway, will just have to wait for the council to send us our plot.
posted by She Weevil @ 7:39 AM 0 comments
Thursday, November 18, 2004
How did we get here
Well I suppose, in simple terms, we were in the process of being evicted. Thankfully, before that had a chance to happen, we were rehoused. Contrary to popular belief, and certainly the prevailing view of many in this country at the moment, you do not have to from somewhere war-torn to be rehoused.
The truth, though, or at least my version of it is slightly more complicated.
We have lived for the past 7 years in a house belonging to my husband's mother. The easiest thing to say, and the one that will probably cause least offence, is that my relationship with her is probably terminally sick, if not actually dead. I am sure she has her own feelings on the subject - I cannot presume to understand or be able to second-guess any of them.
My own are a mixture of hurt, disbelief and extreme anger. All of this, as you can imagine, puts Poor Husband somewhat in the middle.
posted by She Weevil @ 9:50 AM 0 comments
A Fresh Start
Well, how does it feel to get to the grand old age of thirty-six and find yourself, your worldly goods and chattels being rehoused by the council. Oddly liberating.
Surprisingly being shoehorned into a three bedroomed, second floor flat, with three children and various animals, without a garden but complete with piss-stained stairs, graffiti and detritus blowing gently behind the broken security door, has not been the demoralising, pill inducing slide into depression that it should have been.
And as you can see it has apparently rendered me able to put my thoughts on paper, my own thoughts, not the angry rant of a letter of complaint but my own little internal monologue
for the first time since, well, I don’t know when. Having spent the first twenty-nine years of my life desperately trying to tear myself away from putting pen to paper, the last eight have been spent firmly blocked. This morning, however, I woke up and the inhibitions, the literary constipation and the angst about it all have passed in the night and here I am writing again.
Don't know how long it will last. This morning I don't care. I feel easy with myself and with it and it feels good.
posted by She Weevil @ 9:25 AM 0 comments
