22 & not a clue

'A pound for a cuppa tea love, just a cuppa tea, I'm homeless and cold.'
'That's a good wardrobe for a homeless person'.
'Just a pound, it's a cold day and I've been outside all night.'
She strides on past, he lifts his cap and wipes his brow, swaying on into the path of the next on-comer on the street.
'Have you got a pound for a cuppa tea mate?'
'Sorry mate I 'aven't.'
Just a cup of tea, just something warm in his belly. He clutches the bagel and leans against the bakery window. Thank god for the Polish baker who gave it to him. The jeans are only washed because a woman gave him money to go to the laundrette. His jacket is only clean because it's inside out. But people see what they want to see.
It's not even 10am and there's a drizzle. There's a hole in either corner of his plastic bag, god knows what he carries with him.

The man with the Big Issue gives him a fag and a light and he puffs, staring towards the park and wondering if he'll have more luck with the pram pushers. The runners don't hear as they gallop past. He thinks of his kids and tries his luck again, lurching forward at another woman and asks;
'Pound for a cuppa tea love? Just a cuppa tea?'
She sniffs and strides on.

There is this viscious chicken or the egg paradox which comes with living in London. You can't get a flat without a job and getting a job is infinitely harder when you're sleeping on a friends sofa without your own flat. So when I lost my dream flat in Shepherds bush for the second time I realised I wasn't going to get it all. 

I'm breaking up with the sofa I've been sleeping on for the past month and moving to Kent. Further from London, more expensive to commute. Why? Because it will be to live with my wonderful boyfriend, I'll be cared for and truthfully? It's the only realistic option I have left. I don't actually have anywhere else to go. 

When I got the news on Friday I sobbed unprofessionally and left blue roll bits everywhere. When my colleagues found my hiding place I knew work (my current PR internship) wasn't the best place for me today. I left and had multiple dramatic phone calls with my Iron Lady Norn Irish Ma. A plan of action was then made once I'd had a cup of tea and cried some more. 

Now, on Sunday evening I'm on a replacement rail service bus from London Bridge heading back to the sofa after a wonderful weekend with the beard. I still have absolutely no idea what the next four weeks are going to look like. Nor do I know when I will be moving back to London. But I do know I'll be ok. I do know that in 8 weeks time I'll look back and think, 'that was absolutely shite, but I'm fine now'. I know this because it's happened before. I learnt from it the last time. I dealt with this uncertainty and fear before. I have got experience. 

And despite everything, that feels good, that makes everything just a tiny bit better. Because this too shall pass.