Courtroom drama
Dear gentle reader, let’s conclude my story of seeking a new life here in the UK. In 2016 I had my first tribunal hearing in Bradford, West Yorkshire. The version of myself that entered the court building all those years ago was so naive and underprepared. I lacked proper legal representation. I was also emotionally unbalanced by my recent experiences, and clearly this showed: I received a refusal decision from the judge a few weeks later. It took me a long time to process this, and to regain my strength to battle the Home Office again.
In the years between 2017 and 2024 I lodged appeals against the refusal decision. It was relentless, but I learned a great deal about myself—and about what truly matters to me. I also learned to live my life with purpose. And so, when I returned to stand before the immigration tribunal in Bradford this February, I felt calm. As I walked in, I had a sense of the person I’ve become, of how much I’ve grown since I first arrived in this country.
The weather was not welcoming in Bradford. But there in the courtroom, I felt like I had people on my side. My barrister was to my right; my friends were there behind me for moral support. I was not frightened by the Home Office representative sitting to my left. It could not have been more different to the situation in 2016, where I had no one but myself.
As the judge entered the room with a smile, he immediately set the tone for the hearing. His patient and calm demeanour just flowed, making everyone feel at ease about the proceedings. He informed me of the protocols and my rights and told me that, if at any time I felt what was being said about me was too much to bear, I could ask for a break.
I felt so comfortable within myself, as I answered the Home Office barrister’s questions, as well as the judge’s. Next was a witness statement from a director at a charity I’ve volunteered with. Then it was time for my barrister to put forward our arguments as to why my judicial review should be permitted. She was incredible—both erudite and heartfelt, her words made such an impact, and I knew then that I had hit the jackpot in finally getting a solicitor and barrister who supported and believed in me. My case was complicated, but their focus never strayed. They were passionate about securing my safety and freedom. At the end of proceedings I felt pure joy, because I was proud of my solicitor, my barrister and myself. We had worked so hard on this judicial review appeal since September 2023.
The judge told us he would give his ruling within three weeks. I’d already waited nine and a half years, so I knew that I could stand it. “Patience is a virtue,” my grandfather always used to say to me, and it’s a virtue that I cultivated.
On 11th March at 6.03pm, I received a call from my solicitor. She told me she had “some good news”, and that my judicial review appeal had been allowed. There are no words to describe how I felt in that moment.
At the time of writing, the Home Office still have 14 days to appeal the judge’s decision, meaning until that time I can’t let myself relax. But whatever may come next, I am moving forward. It turns out that my story is not finished. It’s only just beginning.
pushed the fear down, knowing it wasn’t the sharp jab of intuition, which all sex workers learn to listen to and will usually get from the very first text or instant with a man. Instead, it was just a philosophical pondering on the dangers of my job, a job which demands that I am alone with a physical threat (something straight women also experience in dating). I pushed the fear down because I knew that if I went in scared it might set off something in the client. I treat my clients like horses: they are large and easily spooked, and I must approach them with calm and confidence to generate the same response.
I have worked with other women who enter the room with energy and chaos and a contrived, manic horniness, which can work for those who are prepared and able to handle escalation, either because they are physically a lot more powerful or running on uppers. I’m sober and smaller than my clients, so I operate with deescalation in mind, only pushing things along when midway through sex, if I want to hurry up an orgasm.
I was glad that I subdued my nerves last night, because it turned out this client had enough for the two of us. Awkward and shy, his anxiety would’ve only snowballed if I had shown that I felt the same. It reminded me of the clients I’ve seen in South Australia, a state where sex work is still illegal, and how jittery they are because they run the risk of legal trouble, just as I do. Working there takes more vigilance and emotional labour than normal, because not only do I have to worry about my personal safety, I also have to worry about being arrested. On top of that, I have to ease my clients’ valid anxiety, especially if they are new to seeing escorts. It becomes much harder to create a vibe in which you can both relax— to create room for escapism—when very real risks are knocking at the door. Criminalisation makes my job more dangerous not just for the obvious reason of it being illegal, but because of these adjacent and creeping side effects.
As I drove home from my booking last night, I tried to parse the skill itself. I realised that it is really the ability to hide your own fear or nerves to the extent that you appear professional and respectful— and can ease any fear on the other person’s behalf, too. Meeting a new person is naturally nerve-wracking, but as a sex worker you must learn to hide your distrust while at the same time giving the impression that you are not so amenable that you can be taken for a ride. It’s a hard balancing act, to seem engaging and open to a client while also allowing them to sense that you are assessing them, without letting that discernment seem like off-putting criticism. Perhaps my ultimate skill is hiding my own fear, so that I can ease that of my clients.