So it looks like I'm not going to be spending my holiday on the street after all, though whether or not this is an improvement is something I'm not clear on yet. For the moment, I've got a bed and solid meals for the first time in years. I'm half expecting to be murdered in my sleep, because it feels much too good to be true.
About a week and a half ago I was at the little cafe again, trying to catch up on blogs and maybe write a new post, when a very posh looking British man approached my table. He said we had 'things' in common, and that I should come with him, because he wanted to help me. I was not convinced, and not buying it-whether he was a pervert or a murderer or a proxy, I didn't want anything to do with him.
He ended up conveying some of his meaning by doodling one of those symbols on a napkin and telling me that he was on the side of the runners.
Fourty five minutes or so of heated discussion, none of which I can put up here for various reasons, I found myself in a car with him, going to what he claims is the remains of Hope. It's certainly fortified well enough, though it is perhaps suspiciously not destroyed.
My host is... apparently an old friend of the old owner of this place. He's asked me not to reveal what he claims his identity is, and for now I figure it's best to not cause problems. In any event, it's nice to have a bed.