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…

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…

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…