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Working two or three low paid jobs to make ends meet in a society that is designed around a two median income family. Not believing in a future.

I am a bestselling author working on my seventh and eighth books now, and I rent my home because I cannot buy one. It was humiliating.

I need a guarantor for my internet contract. At last count I had moved house over twenty times in my lifetime.

One day we can paint the walls whatever colour we like. One day we will have a home that will really truly properly be ours.

One day we can plant a hydrangea and still be here in the spring to see it grow. I have the date of the last CCJ expiry burned into my conscious brain.

An unexpected knock on my front door sends me running into a back room, pulling the curtains, making myself small in the corner, holding my breath.

I try to laugh at myself afterwards so as not to alarm him. Tugging on them every now and then, just as a reminder. The bile in my throat when I put my PIN in in the supermarket, making a joke to the cashier just like I always did.

The pile of post sitting in the hallway, unopened for months on end, because letters always meant bad things.

Brown envelopes especially; I found some from last week that are still sealed. Sometimes I sit down and go through a pile in a moment of boldness, but there are too many now.

And that brings its own headaches, penalties, mental clutter, paranoia, and acute feelings of failure as a parent, as an adult, as the head of a household, as a human being.

Sometimes I just want to run back home and live with my parents, at the age of 32, and beg them to take care of me.

I can cook, and I promise not to say fuck in front of the children, Mum. I move house so often because I never feel secure.

I shuffle the furniture around every few weeks, restless, trying to make it feel right. It never does. It never will. As a grimly amusing aside, this led to one of the tabloids recently pooling a pile of my social media photos together to imply that I had a massively grand house because of all of the different rooms.

I acidly pointed out that they were the same rooms several times over because I shift everything around all the time.

I keep a literal stock check sheet of how many portions of every single cooking ingredient I have in the house at any given time, and am constantly mentally re-evaluating it to work out how many days meals I could survive on in a crisis.

I am an absolute Scrooge about the heating. The boiler and hot water are off for 23 hours of the day for most of the year. I have an electric fire in the lounge and an electric blanket on both of our beds, and we use those most of the time rather than heat the entire house.

Partly severe adult ADHD, partly avoidance, partly monsters in my head. Give me a tenner for groceries and I can make it last a week. I had started to attend local council meetings and wrote about them on my online blog, called Our Southend at the time.

I wrote a letter to the paper that was so long they had to serialise it across three days, and one of my friends suggested I start a blog. So I did.

And I wanted to know who these people were who were making the everyday decisions that impacted me, my child, my friends and my community.

Who was threatening to shut the library that we wandered around in to keep warm? Did any of these people look like me?

The blog had a handful of readers, mostly fellow local politics buffs, and it was crude and tribal and mostly furious. I had always enjoyed writing at school, but left at 16 with four and a half GCSEs.

I had no idea half a GCSE was even a thing before I was exactly that amount short of taking my A Levels and thrust into the cold world of minimum wage employment.

The Times did an expose on this practise last year and my Facebook was alight with women who had been in my year at school all saying the same thing — this has been happening for decades, why is it only being talked about now?

So there you go. My Careers Advisor had boredly steered me towards the British Army recruiting office, suggesting entry level jobs in cooking, or the engineers.

I never considered pursuing writing as a career, and even now it astounds me that not only do I do it for a living with literally no qualifications for it, but my work is on the National Curriculum.

Not bad, for a working class girl whose first job was cleaning tables at the local Wimpy on a Saturday and working weekdays in a chip shop.

Back to , and as my world shrank into a tiny flat, as friends fell away and I started to isolate myself from my family in shame and self-loathing and depression, the blog expanded to fill the space that human contact had left behind.

In late , Lisa Markwell was writing an article about hospital food. She messaged me and asked if she could include it in the article.

I said yes. It appeared as a gratifying brief single line in a short entry about the state of hospital meals, and Lisa and I stayed in touch.

A couple of months later, a friend of mine sent me a press enquiry. I bolted. It was a few days before Christmas.

I had no presents for my son, no decorations, no tree, no cards, no heating, nothing. It was for the Sunday People. Nobody reads that anyway, I thought to myself, and reluctantly agreed to talk to them.

As part of the interview, they asked me for a receipt from my weekly shop. I still have it in a box somewhere. The journalist sat in silence as she looked at the extremely short list of very basic groceries for a long and uncomfortable time.

The world span madly on. Then the Telegraph got in touch, asking if they could profile me for the paper. The writer seemed kind, and friendly, and so I said yes.

Xanthe Clay came round for lunch, and we are still friends seven years later. She wrote a generous full page about my cooking, austerity cuts, and allowed me the space that the Sunday People had not to get a bit political and feisty.

I had applied for over jobs since leaving the Fire Service. So I said yes. I took the phonecall while standing in the queue for the food bank, and literally collapsed with shock.

Sitting in a back room with a volunteer and hot sweet tea and my bewildered looking child, I just cried and cried and cried.

It was over, for a while. The cold and the fear and the hunger and the frightens and the door knocks, would be over for a while.

I still have it in my desk drawer, and every now and then I just stare at it, and its tiny awful buttons, and wonder how the fuck I did it.

Because I had no other choice but to. It was my one chance at escape, my yellow brick road, my shiny red slippers, and I took it.

To this day we the council and I remain in dispute about that period of my life. When one of my editors, a sweet Irish woman called Tamsin, discovered I was writing the book on my phone, she cleared a desk for me at their enormous great big office on the Strand with the big gold doors and insisted I come and work there to finish the manuscript.

I had to wait for my signature payment to come through before I could afford the train fare, and some clothes that would be suitable to wear in an office environment, but she and everyone at Penguin were extraordinarily kind to me.

Even when I produced a handwritten notebook of recipes and tried to hand it in as a completed manuscript, thinking that that was how real authors did things!

A Girl Called Jack was a surprising success. And so my then-agency did a blinding runner with my royalties. I have a new agent now, who fought a lengthy and frustrating battle to get some of them back to me.

Oh well. Fuck them. It took almost three years to get back part of what I was owed, what I had worked for, what I had tapped out in the dark on my mobile phone night after night after night.

Recipes written from food bank parcels, by a single mother, in the cold wasteland of suicidal ideation and only-just-surviving.

You would be angry too. The point of this was to point out that I am not a success story. I am a broken, fucked up, messy rotten husk of a human being who almost died — several times — under Conservative led austerity measures.

I still live in fear, haunted by hunger and cold and failure and self-neglect. My mental health is an absolute shitshow.

Before I do my breasts get really tender and I feel sick in the mornings. One month I never got my period and I would have sworn I was prego..

I read in a book that sometimes you really are pregnant but you end up getting a miscarriage and hence leaves you with blood. I have NO idea what's going on!

So wear condoms. Three years without ever using them an now I'm pregnant after starting to finally think maybe we couldn't have kids. No regrets though!

I'm in a good situation to have a Baby. But if you aren't, you should wear them and don't ever take that for granted..

Im on the same page as you, my boyfriend has cum in me 3 times now and its been at least 3 or 4 weeks and my tummy gets really bloated and everything but then i take a test and im never pregnant??

Guest over a year ago I am in the same boat as you lady's me and my boyfriend have been having sex and he cums inside off me every time but I still have my period and before my period comes I have vomit moments and I have gain like 5 pounds but theres not baby in me yet I don't know what to think I need some help with this he already has on child so knew he is able to produce is it mended need some answers please.

There is a window of around 24 hours in a month that a women can become pregnant. During this time a fertile egg drops and waits for the sperm.

This egg only lives for 24 hours. If the egg is not fertilized by a sperm during this time the egg dies and the uterus beings lining itself with blood than about two weeks later you have your period to wash away the dead egg.

If you want to become pregnant you should read about the ovulation process as well as getting to know your complete menstrual cycle because its more then just bleeding once a month.

You body gives you signs of when you're about to ovulate and when you are ovulating. He can cum in you a million times but if you're not ovulating than you can not get pregnant.

Guest over a year ago hahahahhaah omf thats funny. Mgv over a year ago In reply to sheridanbell on - click to read. Me too!!! Me and my boyfriend tried getting me pregnant and nothing.

First off, we don't even consider fertility issues until at least a year has passed - with regular intercourse. It also depends upon when you are having sex.

Usually a woman will ovulate sometime between about day 11 and 16 of her cycle. Sperm can survive about 5 days and the egg for 48 hours.

Ideally you'd have sex just before you ovulate. There are ovulating test kits, work like a pregnancy test, or you can monitor your cervical mucous or body basal temp to determine when you're ovulating.

If it has been more than a year then both you and your partner should see a fertility specialist. You can expect a full internal and physical exam including blood work.

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So I said yes. I took the phonecall while standing in the queue for the food bank, and literally collapsed with shock.

Sitting in a back room with a volunteer and hot sweet tea and my bewildered looking child, I just cried and cried and cried.

It was over, for a while. The cold and the fear and the hunger and the frightens and the door knocks, would be over for a while. I still have it in my desk drawer, and every now and then I just stare at it, and its tiny awful buttons, and wonder how the fuck I did it.

Because I had no other choice but to. It was my one chance at escape, my yellow brick road, my shiny red slippers, and I took it.

To this day we the council and I remain in dispute about that period of my life. When one of my editors, a sweet Irish woman called Tamsin, discovered I was writing the book on my phone, she cleared a desk for me at their enormous great big office on the Strand with the big gold doors and insisted I come and work there to finish the manuscript.

I had to wait for my signature payment to come through before I could afford the train fare, and some clothes that would be suitable to wear in an office environment, but she and everyone at Penguin were extraordinarily kind to me.

Even when I produced a handwritten notebook of recipes and tried to hand it in as a completed manuscript, thinking that that was how real authors did things!

A Girl Called Jack was a surprising success. And so my then-agency did a blinding runner with my royalties.

I have a new agent now, who fought a lengthy and frustrating battle to get some of them back to me. Oh well. Fuck them. It took almost three years to get back part of what I was owed, what I had worked for, what I had tapped out in the dark on my mobile phone night after night after night.

Recipes written from food bank parcels, by a single mother, in the cold wasteland of suicidal ideation and only-just-surviving.

You would be angry too. The point of this was to point out that I am not a success story. I am a broken, fucked up, messy rotten husk of a human being who almost died — several times — under Conservative led austerity measures.

I still live in fear, haunted by hunger and cold and failure and self-neglect. My mental health is an absolute shitshow.

I have arthritis, diagnosed in my mid twenties, likely exacerbated by living in bitter cold and damp and mould for two whole winters and every day and night in between.

I am cold, closed, and still angry. Post traumatic stress has cost me every single long term relationship ever since. I retreat into the basest of animal instincts when I am frightened, curling into a ball, howling, roaring, sobbing, clawing at the floor.

The fear never goes away. I understand now that it probably never will. Poverty has been proven to change the very makeup of a persons brain.

I am damaged beyond reasonable repair. All I can do, and what I try to do, is use my experiences to make things better for other people in similar situations.

And then, I reason with myself, it was for something. Like kintsugi for the fibre of my being, crawling around picking up the broken pieces and trying to patch them back together with slivers of gold.

Making something useful, and not altogether hideous, from the wreckage. This is longer than I intended but I guess I had things to say.

And my main point is that poverty and privilege are largely accidental. But ignorance is a choice. And choosing to use your privileges to patronise people whose lives are entirely beyond your experience and comprehension, is a choice.

Choosing to use the powers vested in you by the constituencies you serve, to deprive those same constituents of light, heating, food and home security is a wilful and deliberate act.

And it has to stop. Because I am one of millions of people who has lived in bitter, life-changing, cruel fucking poverty in this country, and I will continue to tell my story with all of the uncomfortable details and horror and fury until that changes for the better.

And if your response to people in crisis is to simply lecture paternalistically about how you would be better at being poor than they would, I suggest you put your money where your flapping great mouth is, and give it all away.

To women refuges, child support services, food banks, and every other organisation trying to patch up the screaming great holes in the social security safety nets that millions of children are falling through.

You may well know the price of potatoes, but in order to tackle food poverty on a real level, not just a pontification for a jolly brouhaha on the internet, you need to understand the value of compassion as well.

Exhausted, hungry and very thin. Weekly food shop, The mirrored tiles were my landlords decision, not mine, but I did like them.

Shame the rest of the flat was a cold damp shithole, but the very tiny kitchen was alright. Rice with lemon curd, chicken stock and mixed frozen vegetables.

Accompanying carrot, kidney bean and cumin patty. Dinner, Shooting A Girl Called Jack. The late John Hamilton, art director. Lindsey Evans, my brilliant editor.

Rob Allinson, food stylist. Pic taken by Susan Bell, photographer. We shot it in my tiny crap flat and it was fun and everyone was really kind.

Spring We did this a lot, coz it was free. I think my Mum bought him that lovely coat. Those are my Fire Service boots.

I wore them til they fell apart and then wore them still. Snuck into the big dinner and nicked a load of bread rolls.

I made it back for the end of the speech, though. Another variation on rice with mixed frozen veg, That measly bowl was lunch and dinner. Here we go again!

A flat I was refused a viewing on, to rent, because I was on benefits. October A couple of years later I was elected as the tenants rep to an advisory group for local landlords and agents and I recounted that story in my thank you speech, in front of all of his peers.

Light of my life, and the boy I would do anything for. March Note the too-small trousers, the cold red face and hands and feet and the hard wooden floor, two tops and a jumper.

Even now, eight years later, I have to pointedly tell him to put his socks on! But at least his trousers fit these days. February Same nonsense, seven years ago.

They called me Jackie because they thought their readers would think my name was weird. Jack Monroe is an award winning food writer and bestselling author.

She works with Oxfam, the Trussell Trust, Child Poverty Action Group, Plan Zheroes, the Food Chain and many food banks, schools and childrens centres to teach people to cook and eat well on a low income, and campaigns against the causes of poverty and austerity in Britain and abroad.

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One of my shopping receipts, My lunch, April Another measly receipt, this time. Fuck me this is a bit repetitive. More rice and veg.

And an apple. Guest over a year ago Im in the same situation! My boyfriend has completely cummed inside of me 3 times and nothing. I think I won't get my period and I do.

Before I do my breasts get really tender and I feel sick in the mornings. One month I never got my period and I would have sworn I was prego..

I read in a book that sometimes you really are pregnant but you end up getting a miscarriage and hence leaves you with blood.

I have NO idea what's going on! So wear condoms. Three years without ever using them an now I'm pregnant after starting to finally think maybe we couldn't have kids.

No regrets though! I'm in a good situation to have a Baby. But if you aren't, you should wear them and don't ever take that for granted..

Im on the same page as you, my boyfriend has cum in me 3 times now and its been at least 3 or 4 weeks and my tummy gets really bloated and everything but then i take a test and im never pregnant??

Guest over a year ago I am in the same boat as you lady's me and my boyfriend have been having sex and he cums inside off me every time but I still have my period and before my period comes I have vomit moments and I have gain like 5 pounds but theres not baby in me yet I don't know what to think I need some help with this he already has on child so knew he is able to produce is it mended need some answers please.

There is a window of around 24 hours in a month that a women can become pregnant. During this time a fertile egg drops and waits for the sperm.

This egg only lives for 24 hours. If the egg is not fertilized by a sperm during this time the egg dies and the uterus beings lining itself with blood than about two weeks later you have your period to wash away the dead egg.

If you want to become pregnant you should read about the ovulation process as well as getting to know your complete menstrual cycle because its more then just bleeding once a month.

You body gives you signs of when you're about to ovulate and when you are ovulating. He can cum in you a million times but if you're not ovulating than you can not get pregnant.

Guest over a year ago hahahahhaah omf thats funny. Mgv over a year ago In reply to sheridanbell on - click to read. Me too!!! Me and my boyfriend tried getting me pregnant and nothing.

First off, we don't even consider fertility issues until at least a year has passed - with regular intercourse. It also depends upon when you are having sex.

Usually a woman will ovulate sometime between about day 11 and 16 of her cycle. Sperm can survive about 5 days and the egg for 48 hours. Ideally you'd have sex just before you ovulate.

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