no-banotudeyano.icu
My name is Kevin. I'm 41 years old. I live in Leicester. Been here all my life. I work as a delivery driver. Not a courier — I deliver car parts to garages all over the Midlands. My shift starts at 6am and ends when I've dropped everything off. Sometimes 4pm, sometimes 7pm. The money's just enough to keep from starving. You know what's the scariest thing in England right now? Not being poor. It's being scared of your own front door. Two weeks ago, I got a letter from the council. Arrears on my council tax from last year. I was three payments behind. With penalties, it came to £2,300. The day before yesterday, another letter arrived. Red stripe at the top. Final Notice. Enforcement Agents have been instructed. Bailiffs. They have the right to enter your home. Take your stuff. If you don't open the door — they have the right to break it down or climb in through a window if they see you're inside. I read about it online. Then didn't sleep all night. My wife Sarah works in a school kitchen. Handing out dinners to kids. £11 an hour. Her wages go on food and clothes for our daughter. Mine go on the mortgage, bills, and council tax. But the mortgage went up. Electricity went up. Petrol went up. My wages didn't. Council tax debt isn't like a bank loan. A loan you can restructure. But this — bailiffs. And they don't call. They just show up. I stopped sleeping. Lie awake at night, listening to every car outside. If someone stops nearby — my heart drops into my boots. I check the locks. Draw the curtains so no one can see if anyone's home. Sarah asks, "Kevin, what's wrong with you?" I say, "Nothing, just tired." But she knows. She saw the letter. --- Monday evening, I had to run to Nottingham, deliver some brake pads to a garage. On the way, I stopped for fuel at a Shell on the A46. It was around 9pm. Cold. Windy. I was at the till, paying for a sandwich and coffee — the only food I'd had all day. The door opened. A tall black man walked in. Shaved head, leathe
