Homeless, The First Time (Part 3)

'Okay,' one of my relatives said when I finished explaining. 'There's a student hostel in Kensington. Get a taxi over and we'll meet you there.'

That night, I travelled by taxi to the student hostel in Kensington, but I didn't there stay for long. I had no way of paying the rent. I found Kensington a lonely place to be.

I attempted to get a job selling paintings on the south side of London, but when I arrived at headquarters to start work, the firm didn't have my details and refused to hire me. Given the long list of phobias, I don't really see how the job could have worked out even if I'd got it.

The anxiety became all-consuming, to the point where I lost the confidence to cross busy roads, convinced that I would collapse in the middle of the road or lose control. Once, or twice, I woke suddenly in the middle of the night, afraid and nauseous. My entire body would begin to shake, limbs jerking, teeth clattering. These episodes would last for about half an hour, an hour, maybe.

I felt angry over the unfairness of life. The loss of my grandmother. The loss of the business venture in Devon. Rage simmered, raw and primitive. I started getting drunk on the Tube and mouthing off at strangers. A couple of situations got ugly.

Eventually, the relatives intervened. When I returned to the student hostel one evening, I found a message waiting for me: phone home. My father insisted I leave London and spend some time at the new house in Llanfairfechan, North Wales, adding that I couldn't go on the way I'd been doing. Under other circumstances, perhaps, I would have refused, but not anymore. I'd tried the city and it hadn't worked out.

One of the relatives met me at Victoria coach station a day later and handed me the money for the fare. Soon, I was on a coach to Llandudno, hoping that life would get better in north Wales.