Sculptor on the street

There's a homeless guy who I've seen around Kensington for a few months and the other day I saw him near Victoria train station, on Grosvenor Gardens. The reason I know it's him is because he always has this strange object with him.

When I first saw him, a few months ago this year when it was warmer, I was sitting outside a cafe near closing time. He went just inside the cafe door asked if they could spare an almond croissant, in a loud, consciously cockney beggar type way. The girls working there said no. He begged them a bit more, saying they were just going to throw it out anyway, but they stood firm, eventually giving him a cup of water. In his hands he had a sort of dirty-greyish-whitish lump. I thought it was a rock then.

But the next time I saw him, lounging in a doorway in the same area, the lump has grown considerably in size. Before it had been just slightly bigger than his palm; now it was a good few inches bigger. I wondered if he was sticking chewing gum people have discarded onto it.

I saw him again a few weeks after that and the strange lump now had spikes sticking out of it. I can't remember if they were twigs or metal things, but it looked like a balding blowfish anyway.

And the last time I saw him was the Sunday before last near Victoria. He had the lump still, spikeless again but again larger, by a few inches. Next time I see him I'm going to ask him about it.

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.