The irony of "justice"

"And how did these actions damage you Miss Barker?" asks the prosecution

"I tried to kill myself," I reply.

An hour later

"Are you being over-dramatic with regards to how these actions damaged you Miss Barker?" asks the defence

"I tried to kill myself, so I wouldn't say so. I think wanting to die, having the police attend your property, going to hospital and duly being sent to Birch Hill Mental Hospital, no. Not over-dramatic I'd say," I reply.


This response was laughed at yesterday, with a smirk like a Cheshire cat, across a court room.

For the first time since this all began I spoke to the person who tried to ruin my life, I couldn't control myself.
This person was laughing at me. At my sadness. At my desperation.

"It's still just a game to you isn't it? I said standing in the witness box, gripping it so hard my knuckles had turned white.

The person smiled, a grin, a nod and the word "yep,"

The magistrates looked disgusted, I felt sick, but was aware the hole this person had dug themselves was getting deeper by the second.
Such blatant disregard for what they had done. No remorse. Just pleasure. Absolute pleasure at the suffering, the chaos.

I couldn't get past the fact that back in 2013 when I stood in the Magistrates myself, I shook with fear, suited and booted and pleading guilty, I was so consumed with guilt, I could barely bring myself to speak.
Isn't that the point? To feel remorse?
For every mistake I have made, then and now, I live in purgatory, of guilt and wonderment of how to right the wrong. It doesn't matter how, where, when, who, what, all wrongs have to be righted.
How could you live with yourself if not?

I think I took the defence by surprise, their primary tactic was to highlight "I had form"
I had a criminal conviction for fraud, and therefore, it was likely I wasn't telling the truth.

It's no secret, the truth and I are not the best of friends, but yesterday, I stood in a court of law and said in front of Magistrates and lawyers and the poisonous creature who possessed my life for a short time.

"You are absolutely right. I am a convicted and admitted liar,"

Well where do you go with that?

Can you use the fact I'm a liar against me when I've just said its a true fact.
That part of my nature is lies. It's woven into my history and will stay with me for the rest of my life.
It's a shameful fact, I know.
It's a curse that contaminates the best parts of me.

I took control.
I am a good person.
I believe it. Whole heartedly, and it has taken me a long long time to get here and to see that, and even with mistakes that I continue to deal with, I know in my heart, I don't hurt people on purpose, and if by chance of Fran freak accidents and chaos, I fix it. I have to. I apologise. I admit. I move on. I make it better.
There is no shame in telling the truth about the worst parts of you.

The fact of the matter is, this was weaponized, by this beast of a human.
Knowing the weakest parts of me and my life, used, abused and magnified.

I was tortured. On a daily basis. Relentlessly, from all angles.
I was made to feel like a monster, when I never was.
I was made to feel like nothing.
Like I didn't deserve any good thing in my life.
And that it would be taken from me.

And that person did a dam good job - but here's the thing - everything I have and everything I love, it's still here.

My business - it is me, I am it, so I don't have the extravagant retail outlet empire I delusionally thought I was building. GOOD. That is not what the business is or ever was.
It is PEOPLE. Good people. Positive change. Hard work. Decency. It is incredible bread that inspires hope.
I thought I could change the world by offering the world and his dog a job, that I was helping people by giving them chances, I wasn't.
I am at my best when I teach, when I share, when I care, when I give, when I bake.
So now I'm back at the beginning with a business model that was never broken, just misguided.
I am The Barker Baker, and you can never ever take that from me.
People trusted me to be better, to do good, and I will do it until the day I die.
But that day is not now. Not anymore.

My love, my Sarah.
My heart breaks.
Such pain.
Such a casualty.
She was so hurt in all this.
Hounded. Humiliated. Hurt.
And what does she do through it all? Protects me.
Loves me.
Holds me together.
She's the one who ends up holding my hand in the hospital.
She's the one who makes sure I've taken my medication and I haven't taken ALL of it.
She's the one who picks me up off the kitchen floor.
And then?
She gets up and goes to work and is amazing, passionate, driven and strong.
Her mothers daughter. No doubt about that.

Sarah stood in court yesterday, alone and had to relive the horrors.
The messages, the statuses, the videos, all of it.
She came out, she hugged me and she took me for lunch.

I sit and write this, and shes a work, plodding on as per usual and she will come home and ask HOW I AM.

In a video she recorded, a person banging on our front door can be heard saying to her, to my Sarah,
"You're worthless, do you know that? You're nothing,"

At the time, I was in the kitchen cutting vegetables and making dinner, the banging, screaming, shouting commenced, the windows, the door, the letterbox.
I had a big ass knife in my hand.
Sarah told me to stay in the kitchen and not to listen.
And then I heard it.
"You're worthless,"
You don't say things like that about the most precious thing in my life when I have a big knife in my hand.
The rage. The anger.
My god.
I can't even.

But she recorded, she waited, she didn't engage, they tired and left.

It was played in a court room yesterday and she had to hear it again.
And I'm sure they laughed, I don't know, I wasn't allowed to be there when Sarah gave her evidence.

This person, was our friend. Was someone I trusted. Implicitly. Who I relied upon. I helped. I thought I did.
And if I didn't.
Sarah bloody did.
She was a good friend, dinners, drinks, hugs, listening to problems, support, always.

It was Sarah who tried to show me, to tell me, to protect myself. To fire this person.
I didn't listen. I was scared, because I knew the poison within. I had seen it, and I was terrified it would turn on me.
So I didn't fire them. I plodded along with no clue how it would end.

Like this apparently.
In a court room.
Which in itself is hilarious.
Throughout the entire process this person broadcast to anyone who would listen.
Fran is a liar.
There are no police.
There is no solicitor.
Fran is a liar.

She a fraudster.
Shes a groomer - don't get me started on that one!

Fran is a liar.

I'm getting Fran arrested.
Fran is a liar.


Solicitor - check.
Police - check.
Court case - check.

So who is the liar?

So easy to white wash me with that label. Even easier for it to believed given my circumstances.

Fran stood in court yesterday and told the truth, and guess what the outcome was?
BIG FUCKING GUILTY.

You come to my house and you torment me.
You seek out my friends one by one on social media and try to turn them against me with bare faced lies.
You seek out my business partners and supports and scare them shitless with your dramatic portrayal of the monster boss.
You call me a liar, a groomer and a fraud.
You hurt innocent people along the way.
You shit on the memory of my dead grandmother because you know no boundaries of disgrace.
You laughed about the worst parts of my life, of rape, of prostitution. You shared it. You humiliated me.
You laughed at my (and might I add - fully verified, documented by a full psychiatric 27 page report) mental health issues and then tried to use your own, of which we now know are just not true.
It's sick.
It's all so sick.


You made my life so unbearable, I wanted to die.
You made me so unhappy, and feel so worthless. I didn't want to be here anymore.
You scared me with your psychotic behaviour, I couldn't leave my house.
I crawled on my living room floor, into my kitchen, for fear of moving the curtains.
I lived, in my bedroom, where it was safe.
I felt disgust. I worried people would believe you.

I gave you every good thing you will ever know, and you took it, used it, abused it, discarded it and then used it against me.

You.
You are the monster.
You are the liar.
You are the fraudster.
You.
Well, you are nothing to me now.

A horrible moment in time, and the biggest regret of my life.
You made me doubt who I AM.
You made me hate MYSELF.

Not anymore.

I will move past this, with strength, and love, and hope.
I will be better, I will work harder, I will do whats right, because that is what we do.

As I said in court yesterday "It's easy to answer questions when you are telling the truth,"

Love wins.

Ban the box

So, last night, a job I quite fancied called me, brilliant conversation, really productive, with a date for this Friday set to go through the motions and to have a proper chat about what they could do for me and I could do for them. It was a great opportunity, 25k, company car, real growth prospects. 

The Barker Baker is still a huge part of my life, and for as long as people want to hear me speak and want me to teach, that is who I will be, but in a time that requires stability and security, self employment is too fluctuating for the commitments I have and the life that I'm building.

Needless to say, I was pretty gutted when I got this text today.

This is the second time in just a few weeks I've been cut down from a job that I thought would be a dead cert, I've got the right qualifications - impressive on paper, with a job history to die for, with references to boot; so to be point blank rejected due to my criminal conviction has left me feeling pretty gutted.

I have often written about how there are two pieces of paper that define me, one being an impressive CV - which incidentally, has grown more impressive POST conviction, and the other being my criminal conviction for 2013. For a first time offence might I add. 

I can see why people are passionate about the "ban the box" disclosure policy, it's debilitating, it's stress inducing, and ultimately, its humiliating.  

My conviction is not the worlds best kept secret, I decided the best way to control my mistakes would be to admit them, of course I took that to another level when creating The Barker Baker, a business built entirely on the premise of being an offender, knowing I was someone serving a suspended sentence and limited in terms of job prospects with compulsory probation and drug rehabilitation commitments. I knew no-one would be willing to take someone so fresh out of a court room on. With the beautiful twist of fate, it was probation that sparked my passion and opened the door to a solution - self employment. I could control my own fate, and I did, for a good few years, but then business became more about me than my message, which meant it needed a break. I needed a break. I needed space from the machine I had created. 

To re-evaluate why it wasn't what it should have been.

In this time of rethinking and rehabilitating, I decided a new journey was needed, a new direction, a challenge. 

So, a dusting off of the old CV, an updated LinkedIn, some online courses to get to grips with things I needed and wanted to brush up on - and off I went. The problem being - I had no idea what I wanted to do.

I promised myself after my conviction I wouldn't live a life of mediocre again, I wouldn't do something without passion and purpose. 

I want to write, so perhaps something journalistic, copywriting, PR, media - my only experience being this blog, and the interactions I've had with the media through articles, radio, tv. 

A little over reaching I think. Dare to dream.

Social care, charities, community groups, I am passionate about people, about helping people be the best they can be - a huge part of the business and a huge part of who I am. So it was logical to apply for jobs helping others.

Politics - mad about politics, local, national, with a focus on criminal justice and how to change the system for the better. Same problem, after graduating, I worked in London, I was an academic, I was good at it. Once I set my mind to something, I do it and I do it well. No, I do it brilliantly. Once I want to learn and achieve something, I do it better than most. If there is one thing I excel at, it is being the best at what I set my mind to.

So when I got the call last night for the marketing job I wanted, it was spot on, food, marketing, people, engagement, travel. They were excited, I was excited. Then BOOM. Conviction. Not interested. Best of luck.

I find it fascinating. In the life I have had after my conviction, I have achieved more than most could dare to dream. Why then, is that my stumbling block? Surely from an employers perspective, someone who has triumphed over adversity, someone has created something of purpose through drive, hard work, self motivation, those are good qualities? Employ-ability qualities?

I used the worst parts of myself to spring board the best parts of me.

I work hard. Really hard.

I give anything I do, my full.

I dedicate myself entirely to a cause or a purpose and always strive for the best outcome.

I am fiercely independent but somehow an avid team player.

My qualifications are great.

My job history is great - eclectic, but great.

My references are impeccable.

So what the hell is going on?

When my conviction becomes spent, employers won't be able to black ball me, by law. So why should they be allowed to now? I have paid my dues, I have done as I should have.

The irony is, when my conviction becomes spent, it doesn't really. Put my name into google, my life history comes up, this blog is an example of that. Thats my point.

I am strangely proud of my conviction - it is a battle scar of my mistakes, of my history, of my bad choices. It is the benchmark I live up to every day. The measure of decency, kindness and honour.

It is what defined me - for the better, not for the worse.

So why don't other people see it that way?

Distinctly Average

Distinctly Average

The cover note of my school report from the headmaster once read “In order for Francesca to fulfil her true potential, she must realise it and work harder to achieve it,”

I always found it a back handed compliment.

My parents saw it as the forewarning of a tirade of criticism from my teachers to come – it was a mixed bag that year; praise from some, disdain from others, I seem to bring that out in people. I always have.

I’ve held that comment in my mind all these years, back then, what was my true potential? Better GCSE grades? Because lord knows, I could have and should have done better, but I was an arrogant little shite who thought I knew better – again, I trait I have carried with me throughout my life – I always know better….. Alas, with distinctly average GCSE’s from a girl who had a dam good education, it’s no wonder my grades were met with a sigh.

Good enough to get me into the ponsey girls grammar school, my parents wouldn’t let me apply or go to college, they thought the lack lustre approach to studying would tie in all too well to my lack lustre attitude to… studying!

Still, hilarious irony of sending the daughter they hoped was “going through a phase” to an all-girls grammar school – thanks guys!

I’ve always been a bit of an anarchist, in that, so much was expected of me; that I just didn’t want to deliver. I didn’t want to live up to great expectations and be the bright one; I just wanted to cruise along and make my own choices and figure it out like everyone else.

I always felt like I had to prove my worth, even back then, I had to show the glimmer, the glamour, the brains, the beauty (!!!)

Alas, here I am typing at the lovely age of 30 and I’m irritated. Plagued with “What ifs”

Maybe if I hadn’t been such an ignorant, stubborn little girl, who grew into an even more resentful, pissed off teenager, and duly into a completely deluded and lost woman, well, maybe, life would be different.

This blog is about trying to understand something I still can’t grasp.

What am I supposed to be? Are we supposed to be anything? What is this predestined bullshit we grow up with? This expectation and pressure to drive towards something?

Growing up, I imagined at the age of 30, I would be married – to a man, because I would have knocked this gay thing on the head and kept my family happy, I’d have a child or thinking about another in the near future, and I would be just like my mum, working my tits off in a high powered job, paying the mortgage and planning the next holiday abroad, whilst popping into the supermarket on the way home.

No. Instead, I am a 30 year old gay woman, living in a rented house in a place I didn’t even know before we moved here, with the love of my life, and it’s not the life I thought I’d have.

ITS BETTER.

So much for expectation and destiny.

I admit, I’m disappointed – in myself, in my life choices, in the paths I took that diverted me away from where I wanted to be. Stupid choices, colossal mistakes, and dangerous.

But I’m here. I am loved. I am capable.

The business sucked the soul out of me. I don’t think that’s news to anyone. I had such a grand ambitions and such heart, I believed it would be the biggest thing for me and for those it touched. It was. For a short time.

For a short time I was exactly the person I wanted to be. Hard working, honest, kind, giving, inspirational. I won awards from people I never dreamt would even know my name. And then I lost myself. In a land of delusion and fear, that I had to do bigger and better things, with this warped sense of expectation that I HAD TO BE SOMEBODY.

I didn’t have to be anybody, I was fine just being Fran, I didn’t have to be the superstar barker baker life changer extrodinarre with every endeavour I touch turn to gold. I set myself up for this epic failure long before other people joined me on the ride.

For-fil my true potential? I did. And then I overshot it. There’s no doubt, in a normal sense of self, with a brain that doesn’t operate based on medication and a lot of hard work to keep it on the straight and narrow – maybe then, I could have achieved all I hoped for, but the fact is, I’m just not that person. I crippled myself, through perceiving this immense pressure, from the outside world. I hurt myself, through building a house on sand. Hoping with hard work it would be enough. All the hard work in the world won’t save a sinking ship when you are the captain.

Seriously? Who puts a loony bin at the helm?

I am so head strong, I can tackle the greatest of things and find the solutions to problems that people can’t see. The solution to my problem was me.

Too much too soon.

Too big too fast.

And not enough sense of self to know the difference.

When I was at 6^th form college, I got the highest score ever known at that school for my politics AS level, my teacher was amazing, I was passionate about the subject and I really wanted to be a politician. Then talks of attempting to shoe me into Oxbridge for applications, my parents got excited, the teacher got excited – I didn’t. I was never ever going to work hard enough for that – because I didn’t want to. Can you imagine the pressure? I chose Universities I wanted to go to because I knew they would be good for me. Not good for them.

Ironic.

So I blackballed them all. Fucked them off as quick as I could and did well enough to go where I wanted, I didn’t want all their jazzy options, I didn’t want to be my mother. I wanted a great grade in politics and I wanted to go and get my degree, do well enough to get a masters, and then I wanted to become a lecturer and get into politics.

Of course I didn’t. Fate set me on a different path and hijacked my course of action in year 2 at University, we all know how that story ends.

So is ever too late to be the person you want to be?

Sarah sent me a “TED Talk” last week while she was at work; and it is truly excellent (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6MBaFL7sCb8)

As it turns out; no. It’s never too late to be the person you want to be.

I am the girl who walked out of a court room with a head full of chaos and a lifetimes worth of habits to change, there and then.

I am the girl who conquered addiction. I am the girl who started a business on a shoe string. I made a living of hope out of bread – BREAD! Frigging chocolate orange bloody soda bread!

I won awards. I was in magazines. I was on the TV. SO WHAT?!

All of that fluff and all of that excitement shows me ONE thing.

Right work ethic, wrong direction.

I want to get back the person I was, the kind, honest, hard working one. Well then here I am. Bring it on.

I want to study more, learn new things, use my intelligence and find my passion for politics, so I am. Online courses, here I go.

I want a career that makes me happy, that makes me work hard, that gives me purpose – I got myself a job doing just that.

We are not predestined. We are not bound by expectation. Passion. Pressure.

You can spend your whole life waiting for it to happen, or YOU can make it happen.

Constant state of flux

I whittle away my days, with grand ambitions, big ideas, and more determination than most people I know. There is no doubt, that Francesca Barker working at 110% and focused is a force to be reckoned with; that aspect of me is the person who won business awards, who built something from nothing and had something to be proud of.

The other aspect of me is the fruit loop, the worrier, the needy "help me, save me, I can't do this,".

How do those two aspects of one person co-exist?

It is a constant battle in my head and in my life. I am SO capable. I always have been. Such potential, and always thwarted by own mind, my bad choices, my dark places.

It's such a chore to juggle these two minds in one body.

Now, Fran Barker, Barker Baker, geeky politics girl, avid write, poet, lover of all things jazz and beauty, well shes a formidable, capable, driven, ambitious, passionate person.

With qualifications and a CV to be proud of, she walks into room and people listen.

She gets up in the morning, early, excited.

Breakfast. Showered. Dressed to impress, with a dam good effort at a pretty face and snazzy hair - and if all else fails, crack out the good handbag.

This person is a person of love, empathy, understanding, sorrow at the sadness in the world and fire to change it. The person who would give their last penny to someone who needed it more, and then find a way to multiply it, It's not quite Jesus and his fishes, but its the same concept at heart.

This person built a business on a shoestring. Worked a full time job and worked weekends on market stalls and managed to survive; dare I say it, thrive.

People took notice, people felt proud. 

I felt proud. For a while.

And lo' demons awake, and the paranoia, the fear, the pressure, consumes the good and brings out the bad.

I can't do this on my own.

It's not enough.

I'm not enough.

I can do more.

I want more.

People are watching, waiting, wanting more.

Prove yourself Fran,

I broke my first rule. Fuck what other people think.

I had it nailed for a while, at the heart of my progress was me, just me.

And it morphed and twisted into a toxic mental health breakdown that engulfed my entire existence.

Self employment was supposed to be liberating. An escape from constant criminal disclosures on job applications, explanations and fear of judgement.

How can I win? How can I be better?

I work for myself - I crash.

I can't function.

Who saves me now?

I go days without showering, barely leaving my bed, whilst my beautiful Sarah gets up and goes to work, brilliant as ever.

She comes home, the house is a mess, I haven't cooked dinner, she never complains. She looks at me with worry, with sadness, she can see I've got lost again and she is trying to find me. Reach me, and bring me back.

The fridge is empty, I did the Asda shop two weeks ago, but I still haven't reclicked the delivery slot. It would take 2 minutes, less. But somehow I don't care. But I'll still have irrational anger towards an empty cupboard.

Then I'll switch back, epic clean mode.

The house is blitzed. Show home standard. Bleach fills the air, nostrils burning. I could do with a bit too.

Showered. Shaved. The bath looks like the yeti had a bad day. Clean hair, smells of coconuts.

Sarah lies with me in bed, nose planted in my scalp, she breaths in, coconuts. It's the shampoo I used when we first met.

Is that nostalgically lovely or desperately sad?

I'm not sure the emotionally unstable personality disorder with a criminal conviction and ex drug habit is what she signed up for.

A shinning star of ambition and intelligence, she goes away this weekend, for the opportunity of a life time.

I cried when she told me, not sad or fearsome she may realise what life should actually be like instead of what it is, I cried with pride.

Shes quite incredible and she deserves more than 50% of me.

We both suffer the frustration of knowing how incredible I can be.

I didn't want to be here at 30.

I wanted to be.. me?

Settled, secure, stable, financially sound, own my own home with the love of my life, have a child.

Tomorrow I'll wake up and I'll strive for all of those things and set them as my goals and I will steam full speed ahead to get them.

Saturday may come and I'll wonder why.

It's a constant state of flux and its exhausting.

I love my business, I love my life. I do.

I am just not doing a very good job of living it.

I feel like hurdles pop up when I think I've jumped them all and it fills me with resentment, frustration, anger.

Will it ever be easy or is this the price I pay for the choices I have made?

I know, in my heart and soul, I will be everything I can be, everything I dreamt I could be.

I just don't know how to maintain the constant where I can do that all of the time, and not some of the time.

Running a business, managing debt, maintaining mental health.

No sleep. Shitty diet. Sporadic meds. No exercise.

It's all a recipe for disaster.

I am a creature of habit, and routine is my only salvation.

I create timetables, like school.

From waking up to going to sleep. Hour by hour.

I tick off my little lists of things I've done. Achieved. Eaten.

But heaven forbid I don't stick to my timetable, it envokes a feeling of failure, disappointment.

And round and round we go.

Living with a mental health issue like emotionally unstable personality disorder means I live my life according to my distorted perceptions of the world around me, Consumed by fear of other peoples opinions of me, paranoid of what people say and think. Which leaves the compulsive lying little girl in me to pop up and counter that with a wonderful story which leaves no room for criticism.

Lets say it as it is.

I am Fran.

I am rebuilding my business, bit by bit, loaf by loaf, and I don't know if I'm making the right choice because this business almost ruined me and I it once before.

It's lulled me into a false sense of security because actually, things are better than they ever have been and it feels like life could be...easier?

But I'm waiting..... what's next?

I'm sure you will say "I told you so!"

Well, what a day I've had.

As you know I've been a bit of a woman on a mission the past few days trying to get the local homeless lady of Littleborough into some emergency accommodation.

First and foremost, it is no easy feat trying to find emergency accommodation in this borough that isn't already bursting at the seams - if by chance of a miracle you do actually get through to the right person; having run the gauntlet of every phone line in Greater Manchester, you will undoubtedly reach the starting gate : Whats the persons name you are referring, whats their date of birth, whats their last known address, how do we contact them.
Well that is an awful lot of questions to be asking someone who a) is naturally guarded about their information b) not always a full shilling by way of alcohol or drugs c) even if you do get the information you need, chances of it being accurate are pretty slim.

I asked Becky yesterday what her full name was, her birthday, it took her a long time to decipher the different months and years, but we got there.

So, today, armed with this information, I made more phone calls to try and get a plan together - lo and behold a great place in Rochdale called Petrus - a project that does a host of great things across Rochdale, including a day centre where people can pop in, grab something to eat, have a shower, do some laundry, get some clean clothes and toiletries and get some viable help from the incredibly compassionate and pro-active staff working there.

I walked this morning for 2 hours in the rain, through Littleborough, Hurstead and Dearnley trying to find this woman. When I did eventually find her, she was soaked to the bone and beyond drunk.
Trousers falling down, her modesty protected by another pair of jeans underneath the ones round her ankles.
I pulled them up and put her on a bus.

Off we went, the strangest looking pair of woman on public transport. She was away with the fairies for the entire journey, chatting away to herself, swearing and laughing. The strangest state of drunk I've ever seen - especially before 12 o'clock.

When I eventually got Becky to Petrus, she was agitated and reluctant to engage. I could see the anger and frustration and fear bubbling inside her. She stormed out and left me to talk to the lovely ladies who worked there.
I thought she had done a runner. A good 40 minutes passed and as I made my way to leave, she shouted me from across the road. I calmed her down and asked her to come inside and get warm. She agreed. Positive progress.

She was handed a clean towel and a bag of mini toiletries, shampoo, shower gel, a new toothbrush, hairbrush, everything you could possibly need.
Such dignity.
What an incredible thing these people are doing, providing hot showers. laundry facilities, hot meals, it is just truly amazing.

Whilst she was showering, I went into a room filled with bin bags of clothes, piles stacked high to the ceiling, clothes rails buckling under the weight of the donated winter coats and heavy wool jumpers. A worker and I ploughed through the clothes and found ideal rainy Rochdale attire - a lovely pair of Per Una jeans, it made me laugh. They were the kind of jeans my own mother would have picked out for me a decade ago, cute, denim, tight, size 10, lovely.
An oversized tshirt and a thermal and cosy fleece, a clean pair of bridget jones knicker and some thermal socks.

All of this, free.
For any man or woman who should walk into the Petrus Hub on a weekday, they can walk out again, most likely into organised accommodation thanks to the hard work of the people there, in clean, warm, clothes, warm bellies and clean hands, hair and feet.
And whats not to love about that?
- Let me tell you, after walking around in the rain for hours, I was half tempted to jump on the bandwagon myself; alas, I'm in a incredibly humbled position where I can go home and do just that.

I knock on the shower door and Becky opens it, in all her naked glory, I am a little shocked at the sight of a naked woman, especially this naked woman. I have seen her in layers of clothes up until now so to be greeted with her in a natural state leaves me a little taken aback.
It makes me realise how indoctrinated she must be into our prison system. Knock, open, naked, dressed, leave.

She brushes her hair, hands and fingernails the cleanest I've seen them since we met. She looks refreshed, like a little weight has lifted from her shoulders. Nestled in warm clothes, she moves a little easier.
She asks me to pop back to the shower room to grab her hair bobble - I do, but as I find out later, this was a rookie error, as I leave my hoodie unattended with money in the pocket.
A quick lesson in what not to do, but my own eagerness to help teaches me how to do things differently next time.

I can hear you all scoff, take a little breath and wonder what on earth I'm doing.

The explosion comes, her agitation reaches fever pitch, surrounded by strangers, in a place I can tell she doesn't like, her anger surfaces like a volcano.

A rage. Like I've not seen in her before, but read about. A lot.

People writing on social forums and gossiping loudly, that shes a crazy, angry lunatic.
And I see it for myself now.
Shes flipped.
Screaming, shouting, swearing, threatening, aggressive, abusive, violent.

I'm not scared, I'm upset.
I'm frustrated.
I help the womans hand yesterday as she cried at a bus stop and now she wants to throttle me.

She tells me she will kill me if she sees me again and a barrage of other threats.

I'm saddened. Truly. To see her so consumed with rage when just moments before she was gentle and enthralled in brushing her hair.

So, I'm £10 down from my hoodie pocket, a bus fare, a bag of chips and my day off.

Will I do it all again?
Absolutely.

There is no doubt that this woman is consumed with demons. That she needs some serious mental health intervention, absolute abstinence and a bloody good rehab program.
What she really needs is for people not to give up.

If I walk away now, I will be another short lived attempt at genuine help.
I won't do that.
I certainly won't leave myself in such a vunerable position with a woman who clearly needs some professional support, but that doesn't mean I won't stop and talk to her tomorrow and the day after that, and work to get her the help she needs.

It's the strangest way to spend my day off, no doubt about that, and whilst some will think it's case and point and that you just can't help some people - I still don't believe that.

To top off my delightful drama, the £10 she pinched, I couldn't get home from Rochdale and ended up hopping on the wrong train home.
With a few quid in my pocket I hopped on the first train to Leeds, assuming it was the right one, ended up in Todmorden, having the explain this long winded tail to a less than impressed train conductor - who let me on the train to come home - thankfully.
Which in itself would have been arduous enough - oh no, not today - today there were ticket inspectors at Littleborough - who seemed less amused by my sorry tale!

Hey ho, live and learn and have another go tomorrow!

A face, in a place, but invisible.

Her fingers are dirtier today, and the hair, matted into thick black blocks and oh so sad.
I have seen sadness, I have seen hopelessness, but today, in dark brown eyes, there was absolute nothingness.

Oh yes, I know what colour eyes Becky has, as you know, we had lunch yesterday.
Well, today, we had breakfast.

Amongst the stalls of the local farmers market, there she sat, in the door way I found her at yesterday.
Silent. Unassuming and not the offensive, abusive monster I've read so much about.
Funny that, two days in a row, I've met a woman who has been nothing but just that, a woman. Not the lady who flashes her tits at the middle class shoppers of the local sainsburys, or drops her knickers for a pissed up emergency wee (because of course, non of us have done that! - china town, a dark alley, 2008, thats all I'm saying)
Nope. Today, just a very grubby, very sad looking 40 something year old lady, waiting for someone to see her. Really see her.

So off I wandered, through the stares of the masses, to purchase a sausage sandwich from one of the stalls and back I went to sit with her whilst she ate.
"You look very down today Becky, no smiles like yesterday, whats wrong?"
"I've got a sore back," she tells me, welling up, still chomping away.
"Where did you sleep last night? Were you safe?"
"In the bushes,"

She goes on to tell me where she has indeed been sleeping and duly where her she has stashed her worldly possessions I saw her with yesterday and I understand why she does indeed look a lot more dirty than she did.

I ask her if she will let me help her, whether shes willing to try, if I can.
We sit at the bus stop and talk and I promise her I'll make phone calls and see what we can do.
And then something magical happens, she raises her arm and pulls me in for a hug.
Of course I don't pull away, and we have a lovely little moment, of one human consoling another human in a desperate gasp for help on a sunny Sunday afternoon somewhere in surburbia.

I wonder when the last time somebody hugged this woman. Somebody told her she was worth something. So I do. I grab her hand and look her in the eye and tell her I won't give up on her, its not an empty promise - and I am good at those, believe me.
There is something about this woman I can't shake, from the moment I read the comments and the barage of hate directed her way, I felt compelled to do something.

Why? Why this woman?
I walk through the streets of Manchester and I see lots of nameless faces, and I hand out coffee and tea here and there, and buy spontaneous sandwiches, random boxes of fruit juice, I don't do money, I don't do cigarettes and I don't do booze.
I think thats the point. We are so overwhelmed by quantity now. So many people and we have no idea how to help, where to start, what to do, and we shrink back into our daily lives feeling moderately appeased that we tried our best, we bought that hot drinks - and its great. It is, I think every little helps, truly.
But we need to do more.

So yes, this woman, This one woman.
The village is obsessed with her. Shes the blight, the plight, the face of what we can't bear to see.
The absolute hopelessness, the crime, the drugs, the violence, the dregs of society we try to push to one side.
We don't like it, we don't want it, it makes us realise what our society has truly become.
Selfish.
Blind.
Unkind.

No more.

If I can help one woman - and lets just think about that. ONE WOMAN, thats all this damn village has to deal with, ONE WOMAN, when the streets are full of despair, wrapped in second hand blankets and last years shoes, this is someone we can actually help.

This is someone who's life we could genuinely change. So why are people laughing? Why are people criticising?

"you can't help people like that,"
"she deserves it"

The best I've read is "feed an animal and it will return"

I walked to the supermarket today, and the staff were gossiping. Loudly. Laughing about the crazy woman who flashes her tits in the street.
One said to the other "If I ever end up like her, I hope somebody knocks me out,"
What a life it must be to have a minimum wage job, a roof over your head, and to work in a supermarket not steal from it.

Woe betide you my friend if fate changes and you duly end up in such a sorrow state.

I'm irritated by the irony of the "Food Bank Donations" box at the entrance to the store. It's overflowing - and there is a homeless woman 20ft away.

That is what we do. We donate. We drop a few cans in a box. We put a few pounds in a pot. We buy a cup of tea here and there.
We don't engage. We don't ask names. We don't ask why. We don't ask how.
We do enough to feel decent whilst neglecting to do the decent thing.

Tomorrow, I meet with local council people to get Becky some help.
A roof over her head by way of temporary hostel accommodation which comes with a wealth of support, from addiction services to mental health.
What she needs. Of course.
Will she engage? I hope so.
And if she doesn't, it's the sad carrosel system we have created in this country, but it won't stop me trying.

I know what invisible is.
I know what worthlessness is.
I know what judgement is.

This woman deserves compassion.
Don't we all?

A face without a name? Oh no, this woman has a name.

It's not often I get on my high horse, because that would be somewhat hilarious given my background and behaviour BUT there are some things that push my buttons and I have to get a little shouty about.

For a few weeks now, I have been reading threads and posts on a local forum on Facebook about a down and out lady who has been frequenting the streets of the village I live in.

I have read everything from stories of pissing in the street, to spitting in peoples faces, swearing at innocent children, pregnant ladies, the whole sha-bang.
I have read articles about this womans past, a string of convictions that make mine seem like a drop in the ocean.
I have read about how she is a blight, an eye-sore, a very visible problem that people just don't want to look at or deal with.

There is no escaping the fact the woman has lead a violent and destructive life and wages misery upon innocent people. and for that, there is no excuse or mitigation; but she is a victim too and no-one seems to be talking about that.

Today, having read the latest hate speeches on social media about this person, I got so angry, I ransacked my house for jumpers, and socks, and sanitary items, and practical things, facewipes, deodrant, food, a towel and marched down the hill to find the lady in question.
Thanks to the busy bodies of the village, and their eagle eyed photography, I already knew where to find this woman as there seemed to be minute by minute updates about her movements through the village to make sure every person who resides here knew there was an unfortunate soul roaming the streets.

Well, there she was. Sat amongst her plastic bags and blankets, in a puffer jacket, zipped up to the top, looking dirty, sad and cold.
Walking right up to her, I said "we've brought you some bits and bobs, have you had any lunch?"
She replies "no"
"Do you want to go and get a bite to eat then?"
The woman lept off the step from where she was tucked away and bundled her bags into her hands, she let me and a friend carry her blankets and off we went.

"Whats your name?"
"Becky,"
"It's nice to meet you Becky, I'm Fran,"
"Hi Fran, thank you,"

We sit at a table tucked away in the warm, perusing the menu, she has a read of a magazine thats on the table, I ask her what shes reading and she says "Steely Dan" pointing at an advert for a concert.
"I like them,"
She carries on flicking through the magazine, looking a little dazzed by the whole experience. People are looking, of course they are.
She see's them looking and focuses on her magazine, licking her fingers and brushing her hair behind her ears. She's smartening herself up a little. She stands up, ties her hair back in bobble, I ask her if she feels better now, she does.

A monster hot chocolate arrives, marshmellows and all.
Shes picking them out one by one like a little girl, she stacks them to one side, then goes back to eat them as and when.
My friend orders the same, we are the hot chocolate gang in the corner, and its a perfectly lovely way to spend a Saturday.

I don't know who the monster of the streets people have been talking about, but its not the woman covered in hot chocolate sat at the table with me.

A delicious bowl of tomato soup turns up, I'm sure the portion size is overly generous because the lady who runs it has a heart of gold. She digs in, demolishing the bread in seconds - good girl!
I ask her if she has somewhere to stay that night, she tells me she does, but her appearance says otherwise. I don't push the issue, shes guarded - quite rightly. Suspicious of a strangers questions.
I was that way too when I was a street rat.
Trust no-one. Always assume somebody wants something from you. Nothing is free.
I ask her if she needs anything, she tells me she needs money.
I say no, that I will help with necessities but I won't give her any money.
She takes it well, no anger, no animosity.
Carries on with her soup.

All in all, I have a lovely little lunch, a panini and coffee with a friend and a woman I don't know. It's not how I usually spend my Saturday's but it is worth every penny and every second of my time.
What costs me a few pounds, gives this woman a sense of humanity, decency, dare I say, hope.

We make a plan to meet again, at the spot where I found her, that I will take her for some food and a chat the following week.
I hope she keeps our meeting.
I think she will. Delusional, optimistic. I don't know.

I watch people watching her, sat on her step, surrounded by bags, a little warmer and fuller than when I saw her a few hours before.
Such distaste. People either look at her, or look through her. I don't know which is worse.

So here is the woman who robbed an old lady. Abhorent, no doubt.
Who has conviction aplenty and a drug habit that must have stolen several decades.

She is someones daughter. She is someones friend. She had a life before mental illness and drug addiction took over.
She is a human being who has made some awful choices, choices she probably didn't know were the only ones she had.

When I approached her, she was quiet, suspicious but glad of the conversation.
She came with me willingly for lunch and she let me carry some of her prized possesions.
A first flicker of trust.

I don't understand how we can live our lives avoiding the difficult, the awkward, the inconvenient.
Pretending the invisible don't exist. Because its easier. Because we all have our own problems and taking on someone elses seems unnecessary.

I don't have money to give, not a penny, I have money worries, I have my own crazy ass mental health issues to battle, my drug addiction dead and buried, but I have time, I have ears, I have heart.

The only way to make a real change to the homeless crisis that is plaguing our country is to do something.
Even if it is a cup of coffee, a kind word, a phone call to a hostel on someones behalf, a bag of clothes, a bag of food.
When I was nobody, and I was invisible, just a smile and not a scowl would make me feel human again.
Kindness costs nothing.
We need to do more.

I'm sure the social media thread will be full again by the time I finish writing this, and that this woman BECKY will have offended some good citizen.
I'm not giving up on the Becky's.

If you see this woman in Littleborough and you want to help
https://www.petrus.org.uk/petrus_women.php

Great homeless charities making change on the ground :-

http://www.mustardtree.org.uk/
http://streetskitchen.co.uk/manchester/
https://www.facebook.com/Homeless-Project-Manchester-198156730610289/