Making lemonade from lemons and shit

7am on Monday 17th March. Huzzah! St Patrick's Day! I can officially celebrate it as I am entitled to the old Irish passport should I so choose. Pints of Guinness, huge wodges of mash - could it get better?

It's the most wonderful bank holiday, bested only by Easter as my favourite time of year. Happy Wiltshire scampers about, preparing for what will really be an exciting time.

11pm on Monday 18th March.

My family and I are homeless, having been given two hours to leave by the monster-in-law the previous day. At 7pm at night.

My son has officially been diagnosed as autistic, with social communication disorder and possibly PDD (pervasive developmental delay).

My son has not gotten into the school I wanted to get him in, one that has an excellent record at integrated learning for special children and at implementing specialist SENCO teachers.

I am not termed as homeless by the council as I have "intentionally made myself homeless". Yes, way to go Wandsworth - I choose to be sleeping on a blow up mattress at my stepdad's one bedroom flat with the two kids either side of me screeching in terror as they are both so freaked out by the last 24 hours.

My phone will now only let me hear what people say if it is on speakerphone. Which is tops, as I like nothing better than for all around me to hear my business.

I am, as they say, screwed. Totally. Strangely, I am also not too happy.

Now look, I don't pretend to be a good person. I really don't think that I am. By the same virtue, I'm not a bad person either, just a moderate bird who was an arsehole until she was about 29. Since then I've been trying to make up for what went before but crikey karma - give it a fucking rest for a bit.

I assure you, the next person to tell me to "smile luv, it may never happen" will be perishing through the repeated bludgeoning of their anus with any blunt instrument I have nearby. Lemonade out of lemons my biscuit.