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An itchy blanket of Saint Martin delivered by way of Saint John

Early morning I found my shattered nervous self walking northwards towards Eccup reservoir when I stumbled upon a creepy looking house of sin (church) located in a suburban area of Leeds named Adel. The cold night obscured before me was restless and sleepless, there had been no comfort of shelter as I hadn’t returned to the homeless hostel; the sub zero temperatures had inevitably kept me awake and agaze at the freezing starry sky, shaking passage through the night.

The hostel (a Mary Magdalene brothel) was plagued with Death Cult trickery, from where vulnerable white female residents were being picked up for grotesque ‘miscegenation business’ by some very repugnant Negroe clients; who were being serviced a mere few steps from outside the hostel gate. Hostel workers were also actively collaborating with coveted death cult members whom I witnessed many times from my bedroom window entering the hostel reception. When I stipulated vocalised complain I received a written warning, after blogging about these instances I was threatened with the police and told (as a vulnerable adult) to vacate residence of the hostel immediately without any prior notice whatsoever.

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After spending two months as a voluntary patient in Amber Ward, Highgate Mental Health Unit (police said it was madness to sleep outside whilst desensitised next to huge chunks of ice with no cover or blanket so using sectioned 136 mental health act they detained me) After two hectic months resident on an acute ward I was discharged back into the unwashable grime of London’s filthy streets.

Thirty six hours later whilst sleeping rough in Westminster (central London) after tolerating seemingly relentless abuse throughout both night and day. After having rested my tired aching body onto filthy urine stinking paving slabs I dreamt about the once safe embrace of the Northwest Leicestershire verdant countryside that I had experienced in the early childhood years of my life. On waking reminiscence I could almost sense the clean air and wide hillside panoramic views that long ago gave me a place as a child to escape abusive, deluded paranoid accusations of my unwell mother.

Arriving directly from London I journeyed across this yonder bracken hillside (now signposted as the National Forest), rambling twelve to fourteen miles daily (partly to relieve anxiety); sleeping many nights under vibrant but freezing star lit skies.

Whilst hiking winding countryside lanes I began to notice people in cars taking pictures of me with their mobile phones. At first I shrugged my observation until this progressive invasive annoyance began to stop in front of me, awaiting on route to catch a chance to take yet another picture as I was walking past them. Some cars would abruptly reverse, whilst other cars would drive by with passengers abruptly shouting ‘Pink Lady’ at me through half wound down windows.

A few days later local dog walking people approached me whilst I was rambling near Thringstone, after some small conversation with them they informed me of a page on Facebook where local people had been uploading pictures of me with some very strange attached comments, some of these comments where transphobic and homophobic whilst others spiteful, disillusioned and most certainly slanderous. Harassment from local people of Shepshed steadily grew worse, sometimes a convoy of three or four cars would follow me around the streets, again shouting at me (trying to provoke a reaction) and taking my picture.

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