Get Involved

Shelter is one of the leading Homeless charities in the UK. As well as providing advice, information and practical assistance to those in need, Shelter campaigns to eradicate inadequate housing and homelessness by lobbying government and local authorities.

The team at Shelter have been particularly fantastic in supporting Daisy’s cause in their promotion of Half Way.

If you would like any further information on their work, their current campaigns or perhaps

you want to donate to the charity itself then please click on the following link:

https://halfwayfilm.co.uk/

Open Cinema is a nationwide network of film clubs programmed by and for excluded or marginalised people. Each week participants watch the best in classic and contemporary cinema and work with professional filmmakers to create films of their own.

Christopher Warrack, one of the chief executives at Open Cinema, has been wonderful in supporting Half Way. He recently gave us an exclusive interview explaining why Half Way NEEDS to be made! Watch this space for the video coming soon…

If you want to learn more about Open Cinema and their programmes,

please take a look at their website: https://halfwayfilm.co.uk/

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I am one of Britain’s Hidden Homeless

Homeless people live on the street, beg for small change at cash points and try to flog you a copy of the Big Issue you didn’t want. That’s what I thought before last June, when I became homeless myself, as my family and I got chucked out of our home.

I don’t fit the stereotype, striding into work every morning with my fur coat, red lipstick and sassitude. I’d also like to think I don’t fit in at the dull, stale hostel I wake up in and walk out of every morning. When I strut into work I’m one person and when I fall asleep in the same bed as my 14-year-old sister every night, I’m an entirely different one. Hidden homelessness is a strange struggle between wanting to seem normal on the outside and dealing with the daily anxieties of living without a home on the inside.

Whilst a smiley face and positive outlook can keep me looking classy at The Clove Club, sometimes I just want to wear a massive badge that says “I am homeless”. Other times I find it too embarrassing or too much trouble to explain. Generally people don’t know what to say or how to help. Friends invite me for catch up dinners but I avoid their calls because I’d rather not go and update everyone on the latest (non) movements at the halfway house. Being homeless has damaged my sense of self-worth and affected every part of my life.

Hidden homelessness is in some ways very similar to the homelessness that you see on the street; both are misunderstood, isolating and desperate. Some people may think that because you’re in temporary accommodation with a roof over your head, everything’s okay. Obviously, having shelter is better than rough sleeping, but it really pisses me off when people respond to my situation by weighing up how sofas are better than floors, floors are better than streets and so on. People living in homes will never understand the feeling of living without one. I have no normality, I have no stability, I do not have a room of my own. Living with my clothes in boxes and constantly waiting for somewhere permanent to live drives me mad with worry. But, I don’t like admitting that anything is wrong, so I throw on my fur coat and red lipstick and sashay into work.

For the past eight months I have been living in a halfway home as “statutory homeless” in Essex – far from the glam dram of Towie. Having been on the council house list for 13 years with no promise of a house on the horizon, my mum’s single parent income could not match the recent dramatic rise in rent prices after our superpower landlord decided to sell our house. She’s always been in work and doesn’t receive benefits, but her jobs have always had to fit around bringing up her children and don’t pay that much. Recently, I have started working with VICE, and it has given me the option of renting with friends, but my mum and my sister don’t have that choice, so I feel a duty as daughter to stay with them and support them. I’ve kind of become a “dad” figure in my family.

Whilst ploughing through the last soul-sapping words of my dissertation last year in Manchester library, I received a phone call from my mum explaining that our family home was being sold off and reluctantly told me that we had nowhere else to go. We had to leave our home: our security and our identity. We were never rich – as a kid I remember buying a huge bag of potatoes which had to last the whole week, having them in different varieties for my dinner; chips, wedges, mash, jacket potatoes, potato bake and when we were feeling a lil’ bit fancy – dauphinoise. But any financial worries were trivial and temporary because we had the stability of a home to go back to every night.

In between my final exams and graduation, we packed our belongings into boxes, dropped them off at various storage spots around family friends’ houses (without noting which stuff went where – that turned out to be a bit of an error) and on the 10th of June 2013, with the very bare necessities, went to our local council authority to tell them we were homeless. That moment will stay with me forever. It felt like everything was caving in and exploding outwards at the same time. The gutting, deep stomach wretch that gurgled up through my throat at that moment hasn’t really subsided since we moved into the homeless shelter last year.

I remember the first putrid whiff when I pushed open the clunking heavy fire door of the halfway home for the first time. Like a photograph in my mind, I saw my mum holding a washing basket full of clothes, some milk for the morning and a bottle of wine to settle the night. Standing in the dull white corridors, my mum went from my glowing ray of sunshine to a sad defeated little soul in a matter of minutes. The bottle of wine clinked on the floor as she reluctantly wrote out a signing-in slip and posted it into the nasty metal box. Her face was as sunken and as grey as the walls.

The term “homeless” has so much stigma and taboo attached to it, that even now, after completely redefining in my head what it means, I find it difficult to associate with. My mum has never stopped feeling guilty for her inability to provide a roof over her children’s head. I spend a lot of my time trying to convince her that she hasn’t failed us, but that it was her who has been completely failed by the system.

The psychological effects are bad enough, but the day-to-day practical stuff is also incredibly difficult. Sharing kitchen spaces and dealing with other people’s washing up, unusual routines and low self-esteem means its often impossible to cook and provide a balanced diet, not only because it’s hard to cook in the kitchen spaces provided, but also because who would want to? Cooking was something my mum and I always enjoyed, and having to cook in a kitchen that isn’t ours to then go and eat on our laps in our bed really takes the fun out of it.

My little sister is a pile of teenage hormones right now and being in such a confined space is making her a claustrohphobic nightmare. Not only is my mum feeling too guilty to tell her off when she acts up, logistically, you can’t send a child to their room when there’s only one room and you’re in it too.

The UK is now more polarised by housing wealth than at any time since the Victorian era, but the headlines scream about “benefits scroungers”. I reject that narrative, but for what it’s worth, despite being homeless, my mum doesn’t receive any benefits. A recent report by Shelter revealed that earners in England would need to more than double their annual salary just to keep up with out of control house prices. In the London borough of Hackney, the average annual salary would need to increase by over £100,000 to be in line with the astronomical increase in house prices. Families are the worst affected, with over 70 percent of rent or mortgage payers with children currently struggling or falling behind with their payments. Eighty thousand children were homeless at Christmas, living in shelters like the one I’m in with my family now.

Despite the scale of the problem, people don’t know about it. I’ve even had friends and family asking why we don’t just rent another property, as if putting down money for a deposit when you don’t have any is no big deal. Obviously if we could afford to live somewhere else we would have saved the stress, along with our dignity, a long time ago.

1.7 million people are waiting for social housing but there simply isn’t enough. More and more families are being out priced and it’s going unnoticed. Every fifteen minutes another family find themselves homeless. Homelessness has increased for three consecutive years and housing shortages and cuts to benefits mean an estimated 185,000 people affected in England last year.

It can take just one thing – like a job loss, a bad month at work, or another one hundred pounds a week on rent – to tip people into a spiral that rapidly edges into homelessness. Last year, it was reported that eight million people are one payday away from not being able to pay their rent or mortgage. The definition of homelessness is changing. This is a problem crossing into the mainstream – no longer an issue affecting only those on the fringes of society.

We are in the midst of a growing crisis of homelessness and my family and I have found ourselves at the centre of it. I’m a homeless person now, and guess what? I’m fucking furious.

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I’m a graduate with a job, so why am I homeless?

Each morning, I come to work at Vice, the media company in east London where I’m a trainee producer making documentaries. I’m dressed up in my glam clothes, working with a room full of young people passionate about what they do.

Then, at the end of each day, I go “home” to my mum and 14-year-old sister — except it’s not home, it’s three rooms in a hostel for homeless people. I jokingly call it “the palace”. Mum calls it “the place” or “back here”. Sometimes she calls it “the prison” — it’s the beige, spongy walls, low ceilings and high windows.

I can’t get in from work, run a bath and relax. My sister can’t come home from school and retreat to her room. There’s no way to switch off, no winding down, no normality. Even sitting watching TV isn’t the same because there we are, dangling in this small, stale space, constantly reminded of what it isn’t.

I live a double life, but there’s no escaping the fact that you’re homeless. Wherever I am, even if I don’t think about it, it’s in the back of my head, affecting my mood.

It was last year’s summer term. I was finishing my dissertation in Manchester University library when my mum called from our home in Essex. She’d kept it from me as long as possible, exhausting every avenue, but our landlord was selling our home and we had nowhere to go.

My first thought was to rush back but I couldn’t: I had to finish my degree in English literature and drama and during that time I told no one. There was nothing I could physically do to help my mum, so I concentrated on my dissertation and finals — which could help me. I got a first, the highest in my year.

When I got home that summer there was a trestle where our table used to be. My mum had sold it. That was the first sign that we were starting to move. That evening I sat down with my mum and sister and we talked about what was happening and why. We’d been on the waiting list for a council house for 13 years. Our home was owned by a multinational corporation that wasn’t too interested in making money from its bits of property, so our rent had stayed at a reasonable level. Now it had been sold off and the rest of the rental market in our area had risen beyond anything we could afford. We didn’t have savings for an enormous deposit either. Our only option was to pack our belongings, go to the council and declare ourselves homeless.

We’d lived in that house for 13 years and when we first moved in it was like a house made of gold, our safe place. It wasn’t big — two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs — but it was light and open and affordable and we loved it. We had a big garden and Mum loved having family round all the time. She was born in that area of Essex and so were my sister and I. Mum decorated it bit by bit and curtained off a little dressing area upstairs, painting it yellow. That was my sister’s room.

Though we didn’t have much — no savings for a rainy day — we lived within our means. I had a great childhood. As a single parent, my mum worked as much as she could in catering jobs while also looking after us. Maybe she could have chosen to live on benefits instead but she has a strong work ethic.

Some weeks were worse than others. If money was tight we ate a lot of eggs and potatoes, but we never felt we were missing out. Mum is my backbone, my world; she made my sister and me believe that we could do anything. My sister is amazing: brilliant at maths and so emotionally intuitive. I left school with three As at A level.

We loved that house, but the moment we knew we had to leave, it stopped being our “home”. A home is about security and when the security goes, that attachment is gone: you don’t want to hang on or reminisce.

Our leaving date was two days before my graduation ceremony. My sister had never lived anywhere else — that place was all she knew — but she was strong and calm, our “head packer”. Our belongings went into boxes that we left with friends in five different places; a logistical nightmare trying to remember what went where. Then we went to the council. My sister and I waited outside while Mum went in and declared us homeless.

The first place we were taken to was a huge, institutional building with heavy, clunking fire doors and long hospital corridors. I’d gone to school close by and if a kid came from this place, everybody knew about it. I was probably guilty of making assumptions about them too. Now here I was, moving in.

We were given two rooms and we shared a kitchen and bathroom with another family. We were worried about the kind of people they’d be: my mum admits she had preconceptions, believing the rhetoric that people in trouble were scroungers.

Instead, they were lovely. The woman was a nurse. She had an incredible son and they were in exactly the same situation as us. We soon realised that everyone there was like us. Again and again, we heard the same stories. “Our landlord sold up and this happened in the space of two weeks.” “I lost my job and couldn’t keep up with the mortgage.” “I got sick, fell behind with the rent and didn’t have enough for a deposit.” These weren’t people “dodging the system”. Wages are not keeping up with the price of housing and these were the victims.

The number of people made homeless when a private tenancy ends has trebled in the past five years according to government figures, and it is now the single biggest cause of homelessness in England. Once you’re out it’s hard to get back in. In our area, Essex, house prices are rising by 8 per cent a year and rents are rising with them. Rents across the southeast are at a record high, having risen by £100 in two years. Wages just can’t compete. The price of the average property in England has soared by more than three times the rate of average salaries over a decade.

The change in my mum was hard to see. She has always been our protector, our provider. Now she was guilty and defeated; she felt she’d let us down. It was out of her control, but she kept saying: “What could I have done? What should I have done?”

She didn’t want to cook — and cooking has always been a huge thing for her. Every meal was something she was providing for us with love and care. But cooking a meal in this gross, shared kitchen, which we’d then have to go and eat on our laps . . . it wasn’t the same. We ended up getting microwave meals or grabbing a portion of chips, which is just not her.

After a few months we were moved to the place we are in now. I call it the crème de la crème of hostels. We have our own kitchen and bathroom, and every inch of extra space is a huge deal. But it’s not a home. There’s no front door. You’re not supposed to have visitors — and who’d want to come? My sister’s schoolfriends don’t even know she’s here.

You’re not supposed to decorate but Mum didn’t want to make it a home anyway. At first she didn’t even want to unpack the boxes; she wanted to remind herself it was temporary. Gradually we began to accept that we just needed to make the best of it. Mum has hung little trinkets on the nails that were sticking out of the walls. We’ve unpacked the kitchen utensils rather than making do with just three knives and forks.

There’s no timeframe. We’re just waiting for a council house to come up. At first we were told it might be three months. Then six. It has been a year. If this hadn’t happened I’d be renting with friends, not sharing a bed with my sister, but I need to be with my family for the times when Mum can’t cope. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For months I didn’t tell many friends or colleagues. Then, a few weeks ago, my anger had grown so much that I began writing about it. I published an article about my situation on Vice.com. It felt great, so cathartic. I didn’t want to point the finger — it’s not about the blame game — but there are serious questions to be asked of a society where families can’t provide homes for themselves any more.

Every 15 minutes a family becomes homeless in the UK. That’s crazy. According to Shelter more than 70 per cent of rent or mortgage-payers with children are struggling or falling behind with their payments. Soon there won’t even be enough hostels for families like mine: it’ll be B&Bs, maybe miles from your neighbourhood, your job, your school, your friends.

When the article came out, I was braced for negative comments, especially with the Benefits Street hype. Instead there was an amazing reaction: messages of support and offers of help. Everyone at work was lovely — most hadn’t known — but they’ve stopped talking about it already. I’m just here, doing my job like everyone else, which is what I want.

My long-term vision is to make big, cinematic documentaries — and I can’t imagine a better place at which to learn. I don’t want to be “homeless girl”, but I do want everyone to know this is happening and how it feels. Because if something stays hidden, it can’t be solved.

<span class="entry-utility-prep entry-utility-prep-cat-links">Posted in</span> Shelter | Leave a comment

Britain’s Homeless Deserve Smartphones

I am homeless, but I have a smart phone, like to dress well and I’m a slave to a nice glass of Rioja once in a while. People are less likely to give a beggar their spare change if they have a phone or a cigarette in their hand. In the same way, people resent me for having nice things and looking nice while I can’t afford a house. They think I’m getting being poor “wrong”, like there are a set of rules that I’m not following, and that I don’t deserve life’s little luxuries.

Life without a home hasn’t made me want to start living a frugal existence of white bread and a single can of value lager when I’ve got that Friday feeling. The five pounds I spend on a glass of wine every once in a while is not going to scratch the surface of a deposit, but your disapproval is sure going to make me want to drink the whole bottle and then throw it at you. When things turn to shit, why can’t a gyal still enjoy a nice glass of Vino Tinto? Surely people who don’t have much are the last people who should be made to feel guilty for wanting take the edge off.

Even some of my family have slipped up and bought into this unfair idea – sitting across the dinner table moaning about women on council house programmes who have had their nails done, just an hour after complimenting me on my new haircut.

Last week’s Dispatches documentary on Channel 4, “Breadline Kids” was the latest to bring out insensitive vitriol from the idiots of Twitter. For those who didn’t see it, the programme was about children growing up so poor that they often had to go hungry. Under the hashtag #breadlinekids, most people were supportive of the people featured and horrified at their situation. But a few decided to look past that, and focus on the fact that one of the mothers featured spent £20 a week on wine and had dyed hair and pointed out that you could buy a lot of food for that money. Which does make sense on the surface, until you find out that it was Lambrini, drunk by a mother driven to prostitution because she couldn’t find work despite her cooking qualifications. She drunk to numb the shame and pain of selling her body to feed her kids, and it was turning her alcoholic. Pretty sad, right?

By the end of the episode she decided to give up prostitution for her mental health’s sake and seek help to stop drinking, but not before someone had coined his own c-word hashtag to attack her.

Okay, so this is the world of Twitter, where the world’s most ignorant people were giving their real time reactions to being confronted with the hidden reality of poverty. But unfortunately, it happens elsewhere too. I often get pissed off when I read people’s Facebook statuses, or overhear conversations on the train, or read some shit headline in a sensationalist newspaper.

Selling a £250 phone one time is not going to cover the £500 a month my family still has to pay for our temporary accommodation. Nor would it pay for the £1,000 pounds to privately rent a house somewhere inexpensive, or the £2,000 to cover mortgage repayments. The UK has a critical shortage of good, affordable housing – everyone selling their phones to Computer Exchange isn’t going to build new homes.

Apart from the fact that they simply don’t make sense, these unthinking, throwaway statements place too much onus on the struggling individual than the society that is making them struggle. We shouldn’t be playing Eye Spy through windows, looking at people’s possessions, we should be looking carefully at the context. Instead we seem to prefer to demand that parents tell their kid that Santa isn’t going to come this year, and whatever he brought last year, the Easter bunny’s sending back.

If people are looking to point the finger, perhaps we should start blaming advertising campaigns, which convince us that the latest piece of technology is a necessity and not a luxury. The sad irony is that people like my teenage sister are all the more susceptible. Dealing with the trauma of living without a home, having the same stuff as everyone else is even more important and helps her stop feeling like she’s different and below everyone else.

And what about the treats you bought before you became homeless, or the ones you got for Christmas from friends, or the ones you bought yourself after a great month at work just before you were made redundant. Should you sell them to satisfy the self-appointed poverty police of the Daily Mail when things get tough? Would people like that be more forgiving if I conformed to a homeless stereotype, dressing in rags and carrying my belongings round in a plastic bag? No, they’re probably the kind of people who would lay some spikes on the pavement to make me go away.

I’m not saying that my family should just expect to keep spending the same amount of money on luxuries as everyone else. We don’t. Apart from rent, my mum still has to pay for council tax, food, petrol, pound coins for the communal washing machine, my sister’s school lunch money, and toiletries – things are really tight. But sometimes buying stuff helps retain a sense of normality. Other times, it gives us glimmers of hope – like when we buy trinkets ready to put in the new house that we are definitely going to get eventually.

I spoke to a woman the other day living in a hostel that used to buy a bottle of fizzy drink and some treats to for her ten-year-old daughter every night because telling her they were having a party would stop her from thinking about where they were living. So they turned up Marvin and Tammi and sung themselves to sleep. It was something her kid associated with fun, happy times and not the damp stale walls of their half way house. Spending money on sugary drinks wasn’t ideal, but that’s the thing about coping mechanisms – you can’t cope without them.

And as for drinking, of course, alcohol can never solve anything – everyone knows that – but it can certainly help soothe things. Living the emotional rollercoaster of temporary accommodation I can safely say, thanks booze! Drinking can send you over the edge, but it can bring you back from the brink as well. Either way, a single mother should not be called a “cunt” for drinking. I would never call anyone that anyway, because my mum brought me up right. But if anyone deserves that label, maybe we should save the insult for the people trying to shame her.

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Britain’s Hidden Homeless Need to Step Out from the Shadows

Last week, I admitted that despite my degree and my job, I am one of the UK’s hidden homeless. I went from the UK’s dirty little secret to the self-proclaimed glamour gal of homelessness all within the space of about 24 hours. After the article ran, I was inundated with responses from old pals who I could barely remember from nursery, distant primary school teachers, people I’d met on nights out and that Facebook friend who you’re constantly debating whether to delete or not, given that you share nothing with them other than a willingness to give personal contact details to strangers while drunk on the strip in Faliraki, ’09.

While I was preparing for horrible assumptions and scrounger shaming, I got messages of support, of shock and, most importantly, of understanding and compassion. And I want to say thank you.

My family and I have spent so long dealing with the problem on our own that to step forward and admit that something was wrong was extremely daunting. While we’re certainly not lacking in friends and family, hardly anyone one has even knocked on our door in 11 months. No postman, no salesman, no visitors. No one really wants to pop into a halfway house for a cup of tea. It’s very isolating. In one year the only visitors to have stepped across the threshold have been my grandparents, who came to drop off an old collapsible poker table, which we put up in the kitchen to eat our dinner off of. A lot of people I know genuinely had no idea until I wrote the article. I guess that’s a credit to me and my babes for dealing with it so well.

Ironically, while my family were ashamed to talk about our situation, writing that article was one of the most cathartic releases that we’d felt since it all happened. It felt like we had finally made progress. After reading people’s comments and tweets, my mum burst into the room with her hands stretched out above her head like a charismatic preacher repeating that she could, “Feel the love!” She exploded into the kitchen smiling in a way I hadn’t seen for a long while, wanting to sing from our shared rooftop. It proved what I’ve always known: that when people are not trapped in red tape, they tend to be remarkably generous.

In a hostel, bad days become unbearable, so you clutch on to happy days with every last ounce of energy you have to keep you going through the darker ones. Whether you believe in prayers, karma or vibes, we were buzzing all day from love. I guess when you haven’t felt any sort of progress for so long, even knowing that anyone was actually thinking about our problems felt otherworldly.

Perhaps it sounds dramatic, but when something continues to take away from you, to drain you every day, hearing people’s disbelief and anger felt like a shot of adrenalin and it shocked us back to life. We were actually being made to feel like people again. People who lived in a country full of the nicest human beings on earth.

The article was posted in the morning and by the afternoon I had been offered two houses and some gift vouchers because “everybody needs a treat sometimes”. I was sent more vouchers yesterday – maybe I’ll treat my sister with those. I was offered a sofa to live on during the week and another place to stay if I ever miss the last train. The beautiful woman who offered my family a house free of charge for a year in Suffolk was almost unimaginably selfless. A nice guy suggested Burnley as a place with good housing opportunities and another kind person offered some great advice through a help the homeless initiative he’d set up. Thank you so much.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot of advice I can’t take – I can’t commute from Suffolk or Burnley and my sister can’t move school at such an important stage in her education. In fact, while those offers felt completely different to our impersonal dealings with the housing system, they wouldn’t work for similar reasons – I am one of the many people for whom moving out of my hometown to somewhere far away has been suggested as a “solution” to homelessness. A heart-warming yet impractical gesture from a stranger who owes you nothing feels so much nicer than another unthinking attempt from the local authorities that have a legal obligation to help you get housed.

But it wasn’t all a fantasy. While I was showered in goodwill and disbelief by the everyman, our lives don’t rest in the hands of kind strangers; they rest in the hands of politicians, policy makers and most importantly local authorities. It is both sad and uplifting that ultimately we had been offered more care and concern by strangers in the space of three hours than we had been given in a whole year of living in temporary accommodation. But with 1.7 million people on waiting lists for social housing, I guess it would be weird if the housing authority acted just as surprised. They already know how bad things are – ultimately, they’re having to deal with a situation brought about by years of under investment in housing from successive governments.

It’s seems ridiculous that the 10th of June will be the one-year anniversary of living in “temporary” accommodation. A lot has changed in the space of that year, but I have been in stasis. During that year, George Osborne started patting himself on the back for getting Britain’s economy “booming” once more – the official stamp of approval on his policies of austerity. Meanwhile, local authorities are being pushed to breaking point with homeless lists and what’s really exploded under this government’s watch is the number of homeless people. The kind of percentage points they like to tout – growth up 1.9 percent – mean little to families like mine. It’s like how figures about hidden homelessness can feel pretty meaningless on the website of an NGO or in a newspaper until you hear of real-life experiences – or live them yourself.

I had hundreds of messages from people saying that it had happened to them and that by speaking out I had given them strength to realise it isn’t something to hide at all but actually to kick up a fuss about. Strangely, that rich tapestry of shocked, angry yet understanding Twitterati who discussed and shared the article last week reminded me of David Cameron’s “Big Society”. Remember that? He hasn’t spoken about it for a while. Recently the Conservatives were forced to deny that they don’t use the phrase any more because it had become an embarrassment, maybe because people have began to associate it more with food banks than fundraising cake sales.

But there was a kernel of truth in Cameron’s empty rhetoric. We just need reminding of what it feels like to be empowered again. Just like the zap of energy my mum felt last Wednesday after realising she was part of the many and not the few. Speaking out gives you power, having conversations gives you power, thinking about tangible solutions gives you power.

Sure, it turned out all wrong, but Cameron’s idea of “the most dramatic redistribution of power from elites in Whitehall to the man and woman on the street” was a good one. Together we have power. My family and I have been suffering in the dark for a year, but the warmth of public support of the last week has already improved our lives. Sure, we’re still homeless, but we’re not alone. This is the real Big Society – a nation of people who want to help save one another from being crushed in the cogs of the Big Machine.

Now is the time for everyone on a housing waiting list, or unjustly denied benefits, or has been moved away from their home to come together, take Cameron’s words and turn them into reality – whether he likes it or not.

<span class="entry-utility-prep entry-utility-prep-cat-links">Posted in</span> Shadows | Leave a comment