I finished university. It left a void. I missed the stress!

I spent time in physical work decorating three rooms of the house.

Eventually, I walked into the Refugee Council and offered my services as a volunteer teacher of English although I had no idea how to tech English. I wanted to repay in some way the kindness of Chinese, Malays and Indians that kept me on an even keel in a fractured childhood.

Here, were children that had escaped from war and terrible situations, half their friends were drowned in the Mediterranean. I cannot imagine this sort trauma. Yet t most came from loving parents that wanted them to have a better life. They were not obviously psychologically disturbed. They were charming and honourable. I have spent four years being humbled by them.

My job was to give them a feeling for the English language and help to acclimatise hem to the British way of life until they obtained a place in the British education system.

There was a time when a particular boy was haunted by recurrent nightmares. He could not sleep as he re-lived the loss of all his friends in the sea. Now, he is a happy boy and learning to be a mechanic.

If only every story had a happy ending.

The thing that has weighed upon my shoulders over the last four years and the weight is getting heavier, is the attitude of the authorities and the wider public to immigration.

I look round a class of maybe 15 teenagers from a multitude of countries, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Sudan, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Vietnam and Albania. They are smiling, happy and hopeful. They are so fresh and keen and yet apparently most of them will end up homeless.

I want to weep.