Il est mort. Il est mort.

The wind whistles around the caravan, shaking it on its mouldy foundations and crumbling panels. And the rain smacks off the roof, like boulders crashing down a mountain. But it’s fine, I think, as I curl up under 2 warm duvets, a hot water bottle in one arm, the gentle snores of my roommate just inches away, and more warm, dry clothes under my bed.

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Calaismas: Bleak Midwinter

It’s Boxing Day and I’m stood with 8 teenagers barely older than 15 from Eritrea and Afghanistan staring at sixteen CRS officers as they take away sleeping bags and tents once again and one of the kids is mumbling “racists racists racists” under his breath and another reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom. He blows it up like a balloon and ties it and lets it go in the wind and the nine of us and five of the police officers just watch a blown up condom twirl away down the desolate muddy field like a surreal tumbleweed in the harsh Channel winds.

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Frosty Reception

It’s cold, but you know that. It’s winter. It’s windy. It’s wet. It’s fairly miserable. But again, you know that, it’s winter. It’s cold so donate to us so that we can keep people dry but not necessarily warm or even dry really ‘cause the police take their tents and sleeping bags and everyone queues in the rain for food and kids still get excited at the sight of snow despite the fact that they have to sleep in it and it’s windy and it’s wet and it’s cold and it’s winter. Continue reading