Priced Out: Life on the Edge of Regeneration

We were placed here in the night. We came with all our stuff in black bin liners, as much as we could carry in our arms. Trudged here, got the keys and climbed the stairs. As you open the door, you say a silent prayer. You never know what's behind the door. And then, you open it and it's... I don't want my child here. I don't want to be here, but what choice do I have? It's one room, it's barely clean. There's a kettle, but nowhere to cook. No bed for my child. We're both in one bed. The bed creaks and the mattress smells, and the pillows are as thin as envelopes. My child hugs her little teddy close, and we hear the noises from the other rooms. Music, rows, shouting, crying. People on the phone so loud they could be in the room with us.  I ring the council and I tell them, you know this room has no kitchen? How will I cook for my child? And that we are sharing a bathroom with all the others, men as well?  They just say it's all they have. I am frightened they will take my child away from me. She is growing up in here. She needs to learn to walk, but there is no room. No room for play, no room to toddle around. The room is tiny, and our bin bags of belongings are piled in the corner. Nowhere to wash our clothes, so we have to use a laundrette, which is more expense. Sometimes, I sit in McDonald's all day. I am frightened people will judge me for feeding my child fast food, but it's warm. There's a little play area, so at least my daughter can play safely, and free wifi, and the food is cheap, and the staff are friendly. But we then have to go back, back to the room.  The one room where we exist.  I will not say live, because this is not a life.