Our much-loved elderly cat died on Friday. I phoned all the kids to let them know this sad news. He had been part of the family since they were all children. Unable to get any answer on my son's phone, I sent a text. He replied today. A text asking me to phone him, which I did. The outpouring of woe down the phone was like those phone calls that I used to have from him in his darkest days. He's unhappy, really unhappy, he's cold and wet and has no money and he's miserable and doesn't see any options for him and doesn't know how he's going to survive the winter months. The squat has a court hearing on December 9th and he thinks they'll be forcibly evicted. He says he doesn't care but he doesn't know where he's going to go. He says he hasn't had a bath or clean clothes or dry socks for a long time. He wants to come and visit to see the cat's grave in the garden. He says he just wants a bath and some clean socks and a hot meal. He sounded terrible. I'm going to pick him up on Wednesday morning. He's going to stay a couple of nights, then train-hop back. I feel sick thinking of him living like this. I'm dreading him coming, because as much as I want to see him and warm him up and feed him, I know he will stink. It's the stink that I find the hardest thing to deal with. The smell and the filthy clothes and the stink and the grime. In my house. Where's my son hidden under all this dirt? I don't know. The smell stops me hugging him, stops me seeing beyond the dirt, makes me desperately sad. I can cope with the political ranting and the alternative lifestyle --- but I can't cope with the smell.