Dirty needles, paper cups and cigarette buts lie strewn across the cold concrete floor. The pungent stench of urine hangs heavy in the air. Nausea rises and I quickly move away. Tramping the streets in search of a place to rest my weary body, I settle inside a doorway for an hour or so on the edge of a seedy street with many empty buildings. I sit alone inside my well-used grubby sleeping bag and wait, waiting for a kind stranger to spare me a little change for a hot cuppa. I stare vacantly into space with nothing to occupy my mind. A few people scurry by occasionally throwing the odd penny or two onto the surface of the bag and I thank them for their kindness in a gruff voice. Strong feelings of loneliness combined with tiredness and fatigue weigh heavy. I am hoping that tomorrow might be different. Tired of the daily fight for survival, I begin to wonder if there’s any hope. I soon get moved on by the police. “You can’t stay here. You’ll have to move on”. I’ve become desensitised to this sort of treatment.
As day turns to evening, I leave the grim doorway to find the next meal. People stare at me as though I have the plague or am from another world, but I ignore them and continue to walk slowly, the heels of my scavenged boots worn and hanging off.
The bright lights of the city call for its clientele. The restaurants are full of well-off diners. The pubs are also bursting with chatting drinkers, extras overspill onto the pavements. I take a moment to catch my breath and stand peering at them knowing I can’t afford to enjoy a chat or drink. I move on. Someone throws a few peanuts in my direction which hit me on my head. This is followed by several expletives. “What’s the matter with these people, why do they hate me?” My boots rub my heels and I struggle to escape.
I head for the soup kitchen to get a free bowl of hot soup and some bread. It’s a godsend. On really cold evenings, the soup warms my whole body. I queue for my turn and then sit quietly and ignore everyone around me. I focus on the steaming meal, my hand shakes as I dip a broken piece of bread into the bowl. I notice several others waiting in the doorway for their hot life support. Like me, they feel the cold of the hostile streets and feel the warmth and safety of the room.
“The hostel across the road is open now if anyone wants somewhere to spend the night,” the soup kitchen volunteer shouts. I am well aware there is a hostel in close proximity, but I will never return there after my last experience. I don’t do drugs or alcohol, but the peddlers of death and misery force it upon you. I prefer to take my chances on the streets.
