Ashford Place, 60 Ashford Road, Cricklewood, London.

They're very “positive” when throwing their weight around.

I had just about made it to the counter in reception and uttered a sentence when the belittlement commenced in 60 Ashford Rd. At the time it was known as Cricklewood Homeless Concern and while I explained to one receptionist why I was there another female (Ms Half-Bake) who was sat in the rear decided to butt in. 

This woman looked to be in her late twenties, spoke with a strong brogue, and seemed a little less than the full picnic. She kept interjecting irrelevantly and ceaselessly; one of her favourites, which she repeated ad nauseum, being, “you have to be living in Brent for six months.” Her completely unreasonable interference made it hard for the person I had initially approached to relate information to me.

It soon transpired that what the unstable Ms Half-Bake was actually doing was muscling in on her colleague. Her sense of self-importance was very obvious as was the fact she was completely and utterly unqualified for what she was doing. But she decided nonetheless to demonstrate her flair by acerbically cutting-in whenever the person I was with attempted to answer me.

Abusing drugs or alcohol? Abuse and
belittlement wouldn't be much
help to those with dependencies.

Eventually the rational receptionist managed to inform me that a person who’d be able to answer my queries would be there after about 45 minutes, and if I waited I could speak to them. 

I had a bag with me and asked if I could leave it in the waiting area for 10 minutes while I got some fresh air – after the bizarre behaviour of the other receptionist fresh air was needed. 

And again Ms Half-Bake butted in, this time with an extra venomousness, and shouted that I couldn’t leave my bag. I robustly told her that she needed to take stock of her manners and openly wondered if management knew that she was acting like she was. Ms Half-Bake didn’t take the rebuke in a lady like manner, instead an enormous rush of blood to her head turned her face a bright crimson – which, I think, may denote an unnatural sense of self-importance.

The person I waited to see told me I’d need to call back another day which I subsequently did. This time the place was busier and Ms Half-Bake was still at reception but now with three or four others. And when she saw me in the waiting area she became unsettled to such an extent that her colleagues commented on it. For what seemed like quite a time she paced back and forth in an agitated way and eventually left and went elsewhere – why she left and where she went became apparent soon after.

I'm sure they've helped a lot of people but,
apart from me, have they insulted
and abused many?

I took a seat in a crowded waiting area and while there the antics of a ginger-headed lady (Ms Mindless) caught my attention. 

She was acting strangely, in a weird child-like manner; when she came to the door of the waiting room to call the next person she’d raise her right foot and excitedly stamp the floor. 

It was how a spoilt child might act on Christmas morning when they received that longed for present, that gift that gave them reason to gloat because they knew it would be better than what their peers had gotten.

Soon enough Ms Mindless, with a thick brogue, called my name and immediately upon us taking a seat at a table it became clear what was going on. Without any hesitation she combatively and sarcastically informed me that, “we don’t do accommodation here.” 

This is like a salesman in a shoe shop informing someone that they don’t sell car exhausts. I quickly let her know that I was aware of what this charity did, and just as quickly realised that I was wasting my time with these idiots in 60 Ashford Rd.

I waited to see if my reply had made any impression or if it had simply run off her. It was the latter, as she once again had a go with sarcasm and aggressiveness; I responded this time by exasperatedly asking her, “I’m wasting my time here, aren’t I?” This didn’t faze her except to cause her to squint around; at least she had the nous to realise that others were now aware that something unseemingly was going on.

What, I believe, was happening here was that Ms Half-Bake (the female who had been incessantly butting-in previously and who didn’t like my reprisal) had motivated Ms Mindless, probably using untruths, to seek revenge; to humiliate and degrade that uppity man who had refused to wholeheartedly and without question accept Ms Half-Bake’s abuse. I think, that in her mind, I had committed a cardinal sin because I had rebuked her in front of her colleagues.

Before leaving I went to reception in order to get the manager’s name and an email address. I was, quite rightly, badly peeved (which was made worse by Ms Half-Bake, who was again in the reception area, squinting at me) at this stage and asked if they’d give me a card, or anything, with contact details on it. The young Asian receptionist asked me why I needed it and if there was anything that she could do. I told her, nodding towards Ms Half-Bake, that I wanted it so I could let management know about the atrocious conduct of her and her friend.

And just as I had this said another member of staff or volunteer – a middle aged woman with a brogue, who probably saw me nodding towards Ms Half-Bake – approached me and proceeded to incoherently rant about me having obstructed her from reaching the counter.

This was a totally rubbish claim, a completely senseless accusation. This twat, when she saw that I meant to complain about her compatriot, was willing to try any idiocy that might deter me. I’ve often wondered what exactly it was she intended doing, or would she have even known herself? Was she going to try and provoke me into doing something irrational which would reflect badly on any forthcoming complaint I might make?

The young Asian receptionist who had been dealing with me intervened; she told the middle aged woman to “shussss” and waved her away with her hand. It was disgusting to see this mature female – an employee or volunteer of Cricklewood Homeless Concern – being saved from making a complete ass of herself, and the organisation she represented, by an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl.  

These three ladies in Cricklewood Homeless Concern reminded me of a sentence in Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White, “Church Lane is infested with Irish … spiteful gossips the lot of them, and Caroline doesn’t want them accusing her of … .”

I made an enquiry of Ashford Place’s CEO, Danny Maher, in connection to what took place there but he never responded.