Thanks.

I don’t often talk about this stuff.

Its being where I lived made it much worse than (say) the incident at Kennington station a few years before. (A gang bashed my head against the wall, then kicked me while I was unconscious.)

And different strands connect. As a weird person, I had a lot of employment difficulty. Which meant that I was in low paid work in London. So, I couldn’t afford private rented accommodation. Nor could I afford to commute into London. And leaving my job and moving elsewhere would have meant that I couldn’t have claimed jobseeker’s for six (or was it eight?) weeks. Not an option. So I was stuck where I was until my social landlord rehoused me.

Some of the pain (one way and another) has found its way into my books (especially “Tuerqui” and “Margaret Again”).

It disgusts me on a very basic level, and I’m continually amazed at how ingrained and ignored transphobia is. I’m sorry you had to ever have a year like that, ever.

My God, that’s horrible. Really horrible.

The awfulness of this and experiences like it just takes my breath away. Appalling.

Back in the 90s, I was a very visible trans person. Then, I was set upon by about eight thugs just round the corner from where I lived. After a few weeks, my face looked more or less human again. It took longer for my arm to mend. But the trauma continues to take its toll, even now. I don’t think it helped that it took about a year to be rehoused. (About a year, and a lot of effort on both our parts and that of a lovely caseworker from PACE.) I really wouldn’t wish to live through that year again… bricks through the window, shouted abuse on the street, and so on… My feeling is that I did my bit, and now it’s someone else’s turn (if they want it).