The guy you don't expect to cry

This post is about Alan. He wasn't technically homeless, but destitute in every way except for a shoddy roof over his head.

Alan didn't look like somebody who'd start to cry on my shoulder. He had a shaven head and wore a dark blue tracksuit and was 40 years old.

He had a wide smile and blue eyes, and I could really read the pain he was going through in them when they met mine.

He was married for 15 years. He grafted his way up from a council house upbringing to a big home in Southampton with a swimming pool. He was a carpenter by trade. He had children. His wife split up with him for another man - he really seemed devastated by it, so much sorrow in his eyes. He came back to London to care for his elderly father, who's since died. And now his wife is saying she's going to move to Australia with her new man and the children. That was when he started crying, discreetly.

I don't know what happened with his work, if he felt he couldn't cope with it after she split up with him, but he seemed to feel he couldn't go back to Southampton and that he'd lost everything. He struck me as someone who would be ok, in a year or two, if he could stay away from drink during the bad times.

That's one way to keep a pet!

Somebody told me that a particular man in the homeless shelter I was working in had a pet rat with him.

There was a rule of no pets allowed at this shelter, so I went to have a look. I went upstairs and identified the man by the clothing I'd had described to me. But where was the rat? I could see both his hands - no rat - he had no bags etc, and he was wearing fairly tight fitting cream jeans and a cream tank top tucked into them.

As I was looking at him, he turned around, and then I saw, at the bottom of his top a slight bulge just before it tucked into his trousers. And so there is was, snugly snoozing against his skin. Apparently, it always lived on him. And no, he didn't smell at all. I turned a blind eye - well, you've got to give points for ingenuity!

To Robert... whoever and wherever you may be

I never spoke to this person myself, which I regret.

I first saw him when I was 18, and I was far too nervous about approaching him.

This was partly because of the sense of dignity he gave off.

I was told by somebody else a couple of years later, when I saw him again, that his name was Robert. All I knew that first time was that he was taller than average, and of quite big stature, in an impressive way. He had a very dogeared, dirty suit on, and when he sat down and crossed his legs, which was invariably how he sat, the trouser leg rode up so that I could see large, dark red sores up his legs. His hair was an unkempt salt and pepper. He had an Independent newspaper under one arm.

I saw him a few times after that, always with the Independent, which he'd then sit down and read in silence.

The shelter that I saw him in was only open over Christmas, and on the last day, I was on the servery helping to pack up. As we were closing the doors, he asked somebody if they could pass him out a cup of water. I was nearest the tap so passed it out to him.

That small moment was quite an epiphany for me. Just a cup of water - something so basic and yet he can't get it. It hadn't occured to me before that something so simple as a drink of water was out of reach for him, now that London has basically no water fountains. I went home to my nice warm house and mother, and felt a profound guilt.

I didn't see him for the next couple of years.

When I next saw him, it was terribly sad. He was wearing a suit again, possibly the same one; at any rate it was more dishevelled than I remembered. He was bearded. His posture was a world away from the dignified bearing he'd had previously. But it wasn't the hunching that was the most shocking thing; it was his pallor - he was yellow. I can only assume he had cirrhosis of the liver. His degeneration was a big shock.

I felt even less able to speak to him now, older and more confident as I was, he was in no state to be chatted to. He had to be helped to a chair, and helped out of it at the end of the day. That was the day somebody told me his name was Robert and that he had been an engineer.

I don't know where he'd come from, what had happened, or where he is now.

For a while I had a silly, romantic notion: He bore a resemblance to a favourite artist of mine, who died in the year I saw him for the first time - this artist, Robert Lenkiewicz, was also something of a practical joker, and just the type of guy to pull off a fake-death. And of course, they shared the same first name. I suppose it was my way of making this terribly sad human story swallowable; more of a fairy tale.

Broken Britain

A couple of years ago, in a homeless shelter, I met a young man, a boy really, who really seemed to exemplify 'broken Britain'.

He said he was 17, but I didn't believe him; you had to be 16 to get into the shelter (otherwise social services have to be notified) so I think he was playing it safe.

He wasn't particularly clean, but not massively unkempt. He seemed really suspicious about everybody around him. He had shortish brown hair, and was quite tall and skinny, and had really wonky front teeth.

He was living in a squat somewhere. As we chatted, he seemed to loosen up, probably because we were a similarish age. He was from Plymouth where he'd been living with his mum, but had moved to London a couple of years ago to live with his dad - he didn't say why he made this change.

It seemed that he hadn't really liked London, had struggled here a bit and missed his mates, and at some point he'd gone back to his mum in Plymouth. But again, that hadn't worked out so he'd come back to London but not told his dad. He spoke to his mum from time to time. He told me he makes around £40 a day - he didn't say what from, but I guess it must have been drugs or stealing. I asked if his mum asks how he's earning that money - he's told her he works on building sites.

That was about 2 or 3 years ago - he's one of those people that I have a horrible feeling about, that he's dead or in prison or has descended into doing terrible things to other people. Hopefully not.

It's Just Life.

I met a Polish homeless guy in Kensington recently.

There are a surprising number sleeping rough in that area - I would have assumed such an affluent neighbourhood would 'clean them up', or, shock-horror, donate some of their wealth to helping out their destitute neighbours.

Anyway, this guy was sitting in the cold (it was during the snowy patch at the end of 2009) with a cup out for begging money. I had crouched down next to him to tell him about a shelter he could go to if he needed to.

Like practically every nomadic, homeless type of person I've encountered, once I showed him I was friendly, he had plenty to say. His English wasn't great. He has children back in Poland, but said he can't go back there because if he does, he'll get sent to prison!! I'm not sure why - there seemed to be money involved in it though. He makes a little money now by 'doing pizza papers' which I finally worked out meant sticking take-away pizza leaflets through doors.

He said he's an alcoholic, and isn't sure what he's going to do from here: at the moment, he's quite inclined to go back to Poland, and just go to prison, and 'be finished'. I think I must have pulled a sorry face or something because he patted me and said "It's ok, it's just life." And then started talking about cutting his leg off.

Frequent Flyer

I just met this guy on the tube two days ago. I've learnt how to spot someone destitute now - though perhaps he wouldn't appreciate that word being used about him - dirty fingers, unshaven, lots of layers of clothing - scavenged and kept in the safest place; on him, and multiple bags stuffed with everything else he owns. There's also often a particular odour that people have after not washing for a while - I can't really put my finger on what it is, but it's very distinctive and always makes me think of the colour yellow.

Anyway, this guy got on the Piccadilly Line tube where I got on, and sat down opposite me. I smiled at him sheepishly, and he seemed pleased to see a glimmer of friendliness. He had a cut on his hand that looked quite bad - the sides of it were all raised up like it was getting infected. I said to him that it looked pretty bad. People in our carriage who saw me speak to him looked like I'd just revealed a tail.


We got chatting.

He's Australian, from New South Wales, and is called Richard. He came over here in March 2009. He's going back in February 2010. He works on building sites usually but said that this time he hasn't had much luck with work. He looks about 55. I asked why he came over here, and he said that in 2002 (or was it 2003? I can't remember) he flew 17 times between various countries - to Israel, South America, America - all over - and so he now has loads of frequent flyer free airmiles to use up!!! So he popped over here for a year.

He's travelled widely - he said his hardest time was in Peru but didn't go into detail. He said he often crashes at a friend's but this year he ended up spending Christmas night in a graveyard in Pimlico because there was no transport so he couldn't get to the friend's.

I hope he carries on travelling safely.

A side of compassion, please

A couple of years ago I briefly met a man who was sleeping in the doorway of a Prada shop in central London. He had a pair of chef's checked trousers in his rucksack, which I saw peeking out, so I asked if that was what he worked as; he said yes, but he'd recently been fired because they found out he was homeless.