Still January

When I arrive at the Unity office, my coat wet from the snow there are already a few people there. They have been there since 6am outside the Home Office protesting against dawn raids. I am brought up to date, make myself a drink and check the emails. Yesterday a woman and her 5 children were detained when they went to sign. She had fled her husband who tried to kill her and one of her sons. They have been here for 5 years and the children have been in the Scottish school system all this time. They are all in Dungavel detention centre.

It is quieter than usual but there is still a steady stream of people coming in to check in at Unity before signing at the Home Office.

A man comes in. His friend has been in Dungavel since early December. His wife and three children were too but they have been released. They paid a lawyer in London £2 500 to deal with the case and have had no receipt and little contact. I call the lawyer who says that he has faxed a barrister 2 days ago with the refusal notice and he is waiting to hear back from him and once he has he can put in for a judicial review and after that apply for bail. That's the procedure he says. Oh, and he has sent one other fax to a doctor to get some evidence about the man in detention's wife's depression. The friend stood wondering what to do next for a time and I wondered too, not knowing. He shakes my hand, says thank you and leaves.

A woman leaves her baby asleep in his pram while she goes to sign.

A photographer calls asking me if I know if it is possible to take photographs in Dungavel, I'm not sure.

I really need to pee but the toilet is in a separate entrance to the building and I can't leave the baby. A tall man with jeans on comes in, he is familiar to me. Is there anything you need, I ask. He says, I need to go to the toilet. I snap back, me too. He says, you first, I grab the keys and go.

A man comes in for a letter of support but the printer is broken so he waits while I try to email the letter to other places to print so he can pick it up and send it away today, it's urgent.

The baby is starting to get restless. Everybody returning from the Home Office is complaining about how busy it is, how long they have to wait in line to sign their name to say they are still here where they want to be.

A family comes in and they are anxious. It is the first time that they have all been called to sign together. They ask questions, is this normal, what will happen? They set off, I look at their file and panic because the lawyer's phone number isn't there. I call them on their mobile and get the number before they get to the Home Office.

The woman whose daughter was in Britain and then sent back to Africa without them seeing each other comes in. There has been a lot of hope with her situation the last few months because she has telephone contact with her daughter for the first time in years but there have been legal difficulties this week, set backs. "One day I'll live a happy life", she says and cries quietly.

The wife and children of the man in Dungavel come in. Her English is not good enough to fully understand what I can pass on about my phonecall with the lawyer. She calls the friend who explains. She nods and leaves.

The baby starts crying and I go and sit by him. Not long after his mother bursts in. I'm so sorry, so sorry, I'm grateful, she says to me. I'm so sorry, you must be hungry, to her son. Her anxiety is heightened, disproportionate to her baby's distress.

The tall man wearing jeans comes rushing back. It's taking too, too long today, forty people in front of me, can I call my wife I was supposed to meet her, she'll be worried. I am worried too, about the family who went together. It is well after five o'clock and it is only them and one other person due back. They arrive with smiles and cross their names off the list.