6th October 2014
Oh, my love,
Can you ever forgive me for how long it’s been since I last wrote to you? Please my love, forgive me, for there is a good reason for my lack of correspondence. You see, it’s been a bit of a fraught summer. I had no oven or hob for a good couple of months, and also no bathroom basin, but that was okay. The bit that meant I was just too busy to write was my friend being made homeless with her young child and her cat and dog. Me, being mentally ill with a horrible disorder called empathy, gave her a place to live.
What this meant of course was that there were seven people living in my 2.5 bedroom house. (I mean, seriously, if this were social housing my third bedroom would not count. I lovingly refer to it as the ‘cupboard’.) So my friend and her child lived in my cupboard for three months while desperately trying to get some help from anywhere. I mean, anywhere.
No council would take responsibility for her, no homeless charities would assist, absolutely no one would help. She was originally one of your constituents but couldn’t get any help from your office, so I did consider giving her your number so that she could come and stay with you, but the insecurities set in. You see, my friend has skin of porcelain and absolutely beautiful eyes, and my love, I feared you might stray.
In the end I personally wrote to some charities (using my OMG awesomez lettor writing skillz) on her behalf and finally she was given enough money for a deposit on a tiny little house out in the sticks, two or three bus rides from her nearest newsagents.
Now, you’d probably say that all’s well that ends well, but darling, the trauma of housing a pleb. I should have known darling, but because of my mental illness I didn’t see it coming. In between frantically trying to find anywhere to live, anywhere that would give her a job, crying and feeling unbelievably guilty about living with me, what do you suppose she did? Yes, she smoked B&H, drank Special Brew and watched Jezza with her beer belly hanging out. Just kidding. She didn’t do that at all. She just sat around smoking crack.
Anyway, I have seen the error of my ways and am seeking counselling for my empathetic ways so that I can become more like IDS. In my position he would probably have told her that work pays and that she has to work hard and get on, and she would have died in a gutter somewhere having had her child removed from her.
That would have been far better.
I love you.