Il est mort. Il est mort.

The wind whistles around the caravan, shaking it on its mouldy foundations and crumbling panels. And the rain smacks off the roof, like boulders crashing down a mountain. But it’s fine, I think, as I curl up under 2 warm duvets, a hot water bottle in one arm, the gentle snores of my roommate just…

Frosty Reception

It’s cold, but you know that. It’s winter. It’s windy. It’s wet. It’s fairly miserable. But again, you know that, it’s winter. It’s cold so donate to us so that we can keep people dry but not necessarily warm or even dry really ‘cause the police take their tents and sleeping bags and everyone queues…

Conversations from Calais #5

The sun has been back out this week, and with it a false sense of security and warmth. At lunchtime I play cricket in the sunshine with a couple of Afghan boys (and despite having not played cricket since school, and being pretty crap at it even then, I manage not to embarrass myself too…