“[...] the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’” – Jack Kerouac

To say life at Gatehouse is interesting would be a flagrant disregard for the English language. In the last couple of weeks we have had to call the CAT team* to help deal with a screaming sex worker whose brain tipped over the edge into some abyss and took it to the street. We’ve had a suicide threat, not one but three women lose their shit at staff and a phone call for help from a woman who crashed a stolen vehicle into another car while involved in a police chase, and fled the scene. Add in a prison visit, a trip to the psych ward and a court appearance and you are getting closer to surmising what its like to work here. In one word? Unpredictable.

Today? Well today T. is here. She’s been here for three hours and she hasn’t stopped speaking. She is narrating her life, in a very clear, but crazed and continuous voice. She’s driving everyone nuts (although we are giggling too, because she is very, very funny). We’ve called the Ambo’s because she is a schizophrenic and she has a court ordered psych med injection that she’s on the run from. They have told us it’ll take at least an hour. She sounds like a one-woman play, her monologue is poetic and amazing, clever and entertaining but each words measures her level of crazy. She occasionally breaks into song.

When the paramedics finally get here she cracks it at them, losing her temper, and they call the cops to deal with her. They’re nice guys, tough but they manage not to lose their cool (just) and cajole her, firmly, into the waiting ambulance. She finally gives in, departing with this wisecrack – “I’m coming with you because you’ve got guns and I’m a sharp shooter.” Our combined cackle follows her cacophony into the sunny afternoon. It’s not cruel laughing, but homage to her wit.

Then some days are a reprieve of quiet. Still. Normal. Full of cups of tea, chatting and nothing much. Just being together, drinking, cooking and talking, like we all do with our girlfriends. Sure we discuss the going rate for sex, and the size of, erm, well y’know, men. But we also talk about children, shoes, pets, partners, clothes, families and beauty care. Get a bunch of women together, no matter what their profession, and those topics are pretty standard. Which is a relief, because the T. days are tiring.

So sometimes Gatehouse is tea, some days it’s T. Which is fine by me. I’m of the ilk of Jack Kerouac; I love the mad ones the most, but you need a break from the roman candles pinwheeling into your day, to have a hot cup of something. As Bernard-Paul Heroux so wisely spoke; “There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea.” I’m inclined to agree. The problem is the women are far more keen on instant coffee with four or five sugars. If I need to make a soothing cuppa, that brew is a far safer bet. Still, even if its not tea per se, knowing how they like their coffee is a nice anchor of predictability, in a very unpredictable world.

* The Mental Health Crisis Assessment and Treatment services assist people who are in crisis with mental problems – including people who are close to suicide.