My mother and brother know I am suffering intensely with depression that includes suicidal feelings.
Yet they seem to be constantly trying to provoke and upset me, so much so that I start to record what they say to me because it’s utterly unbelievable.
I specifically asked my father to protect me from them before I even returned home with nowhere else to go, and he had agreed, no promised, he would do that.
(The irony).
He’s out though.
Mum asks me to come down and help her with the laptop, she has some problem with her bank’s website.
So I go to have a look, and slap bang on the screen is a payment she’s just made to Robert of £500.
I’m a bit concerned about it and ask her what it’s for.
She starts getting upset and defensive, but not before telling me it was for his gym membership or car insurance, something like this.
I’m upset to see it and say something judgmental but not condemning.
She becomes enraged, and this becomes apoplectic, and Robert comes down and lays into me too!
I’m so broken, I can’t stand up for myself at all.
I go upstairs.
Five minutes later, my mother is coming up the stairs and I can tell by her gait she’s coming for me so I put a chair in front of the door so she can’t get in.
She starts banging on the door and raging outside.
I’m amazed.
I can’t help wondering if they would rather like me to kill myself.
If Robert had shared with her what was going on with the porn-gangs, and maybe even to the extent that I was starring in sedated rape porn (my guess he omitted his own involvement in 2008 with Luke), and they had gone for him in the same way in Thailand, would she maybe decide that she was going to protect him at all costs, and discard her daughter in the process.
It’s the only explanation for their behavior towards me since he came back from Thailand in 2011. This was very much not an isolated event.
I change the medication in an attempt to stop putting on weight.
I start feeling extraordinarily anxious.
My mother offers me some valium.
It works.
I stop taking the prescription medication but continue taking valium.
I become horribly addicted to it.
I wonder about the true source of this medication and whether criminal gangs familiar to this story might have something to do with its distribution via Royal Mail.
My dad was dancing with the Sadler’s Well Company of Elders, a group of elderly people who live mostly in North London, until he fell.
I’ve been to many of his shows over the years.
It’s a summer weekend and I go along to an afternoon show where they perform a few pieces.
I think it’s likely to be the Elixir festival.
My aunt Paddy (dad’s sister) and my cousin Leah (long-term North London criminal-gang honey-trap target for her Lockerbie compensation) are there too.
I can’t remember if I go alone, or with mum. I think alone probably.
After the shows, there’s often drinks with everyone and you get to meet the choreographers, the dancers, families and friends.
I meet a Spanish man who is connected to the organization in some capacity - I can’t remember if he actually works for the Sadler’s Wells or if he is just friends with the choreographers.
We chat a little, I ask him what instrument he plays, it’s the guitar.
My dad whisks me away saying, don’t talk to him anymore.
I’d just passed the first day of the Metropolitan police recruitment process¶
Interestingly…
I was going through the recruitment process for the Met at the time.
I’d had such a good experience with Lauren Ott and the investigation team just the year before - even though nothing was done about the rape-gangs at that time - I decided I’d sign up.
The idea of nicking the worst-of-the-worst was inordinately appealing to me (still is, you can tell can’t you).
It wasn’t the first time I tried to join the police either.
Passing the first day of interviews for the Met could have even happened on the same week as the show.
Are these two things connected; given North London criminal gangs know everything I do with pinpoint precision?
Seems possible but I can’t think of a purpose outside of maybe a sexual-assault trauma-trigger in person (was he a man who had actually been in one of my apartments while I was sedated?) perhaps in the hope I might be frightened out of continuing my application.
Thoughts on a group of elderly people owning London properties meeting regularly¶
Were Hazel and Sandra Smith, left alone to murder in peace, free to start up and run a criminal enterprise doing what they do best without ever stepping foot in the UK?
Did they find out about the wealthy elderly-person’s dance group because they were hacking me and knew everything I was doing?
Were they unable to ignore the large group of wealthy Londoners close to the end of their lives?
Was it a too good to be true source of income for them and Las Marinas’s finest?
I mean, this is the property big-time, isn’t it, none of those poxy 100K beach side flats that are only occupied in July and August.
My view is they wouldn’t have been able to stop themselves…
…and I was expected to fall into Bruno’s arms at Alicante airport, prompting a speedy marriage, and a perma-high of elephant-strength-medication proportions rendering me nearly mute and hardly able to sign my name (see wedding shoes bought at El Corte Ingles in Zaragoza now in the attic at 31, we hope), a change of will with Spanish lawyers (they have to lower the dose so I can sign my name), and then SOMETHING HAPPENS to explain my suicide… and they get their sticky gorilla mitts into my near half a million euros…
My dad thinks he was poisoned by one of the choreographers at the Sadler’s Wells some time in Spring/Summer 2023, and survived, and she had tried again but he knew what she was up to…
I tend to believe it too.
And he also thinks another member Jeff suffered a similar fate not long before, and died.
It reminds me that some time in 2017 or maybe 2018, my dad became inexplicably ill.
It was a Friday night also, so the day of his dance practice, but he was late getting home that night and would have been in town all day doing whatever he did down there.
Anyway, he was extraordinarily unwell for about 48 hours, then recovered.
No vomiting, no diarrhea, his whole body went cold.
He refused the doctor and then got better.
His hair went completely white after that for a few months. You can see it in some of the dancing films from that time.
We were good friends at that time, until probably around June 2019 when he started to blank me inexplicably - did they tell him to?
He was my lone support in really difficult times.
If he had died at that time, Robert and mum would have been intolerable to live with and I would have had to move.
Was that an earlier failed plan to get me back to Spain and back into their brain-damage program?
I took the train to Lourdes from London and changed in Paris.
A man was sitting next to me (the opposite seats across the aisle) on the London to Gare de Nord portion of my trip on the Eurostar.
I had gone to sleep without noticing him staring at me.
When I awoke, about half an hour from Paris, he was sitting staring, sniggering and grinning at me.
I smiled initially (because I didn’t understand how famous I already was in criminal porn at the time) but his behavior was so weird I stopped smiling.
This man became very weird with me, trying to take my bag, help me down from the train, trying to touch me, I eventually got angry with him in front of the other passengers.
And he ran off. Fast.
A black man of about 5‘10’.
Curiously, I believe the same man visited Lourdes while I was living there in 2020 when the sanctuary was mostly closed.
This weird black man was always at the sanctuary for a few months (probably Jan-Feb-March 2020) before I started at Qredo and when I came down after lunch to see Mary.
What was interesting is that Lourdes security teams did not like him at all, and they seemed to be following him a lot to get him to leave.
The Metropolitan Police refer me to the Rape Crisis centre in Hornsey.
I’m on the waiting list for a therapist. I’m told it could take over year to get to the front of the queue.
In the meantime, I attend group therapy.
It may be the first session I attend. As I’m approaching the Rape Crisis building a man circles me on a bicycle. It is Winston M’s accomplice from 1989. The man I could never remember the name of.
Online hacking gangs from Denia tell me his name in 2026: Busby.
Of course it was Busby.
Winston May never stopped going on about Busby.
He is extremely skinny. His legs are like sticks. He looks unwell; like he has been doing hard drugs for decades. I am in no doubt about who he is.
I take my place in the circle.
As we begin, the facilitator says to the group of women “just be aware that there could be a police officer here today”.
I tell the group what happened and who I saw, and how it made me feel, which was very anxious. I’m hyperventilating a little.
One of the women at this session does not return for any other sessions.
I can only explain this as an impromptu line up, and I most certainly pointed out the true perp.