Sweet-toothed Dawn in a not so sweet situation

This evening, on my way along Victoria Street to Victoria station, I saw a woman sitting next to a Pret in a sleeping bag. I had been walking along thinking how freezing my fingers were, so when I saw her I stopped and asked if she wanted a sandwich or anything. It must be horrible to be out in this cold and insanely windy weather.

She said she had stitches in her mouth and pulled at her lip with spiny dirt-covered fingers to show me, and asked for a capuccino, which I brought out to her with loads of sugar - something I've learnt over the years of working with homeless people or doing this sort of ad hoc thing is that they invariably have an extremely sweet tooth.

She started talking about a hostel around the corner that she'd been offered a bed in by "outreach workers", but she couldn't get the bed because they were asking for a service charge of £8. She's been on the streets for 3 months now, taking showers occasionally at a day centre. That means she's been sleeping rough all over Christmas, through the harshest time in our climate. She was extremely thing - huddled up in multiple jumpers and jackets, with just tiny bird-like wrists and those dirty fingers sticking out, and cheekbones jutting out of her face. I'm not sure how old she was, 30s or 40s. She said she is from Wales, and came up to London with "a man" who proceeded to beat her, hence the stitches. She ran away from him 3 months ago and since then has been living rough. Her parents are dead and she doesn't know anyone in London.

She was very worried about the hostel. She said that if she didn't pay the service charge, she wouldn't be allowed in, and would lose the chance of a bed for the next 8 weeks. She seemed to think that the reason they were charging her was to check she was serious about wanting the bed, which sounded like a very odd policy to me.
The hostel was St Mungo's (not to be confused with the Harry Potter institution), and once I've published this, I'll be getting in touch with St Mungo's to see if this is really their policy, or if she was spinning me a tale in the hope of striking eight pounds worth of gold.

Soup runs: a poisoned broth?

In today's Evening Standard, the free newspaper in London, there's an article called "Do soup runs harm rough sleepers?"


[click here to read it]


It asks whether soup kitchens are actually creating more problems than they solve. The councillors of Westminster want to outlaw soup runs, because they say it attracts homeless people to the area.

[click here to read about Westminster council's homelessness strategy]


Apparently, Westminster Council proposed banning soup runs across the whole of London in 2007 but were unsuccessful.

That argument in itself is fairly disgusting; perhaps rather than pushing the problem into another borough, they could work out why the people are homeless in the first place (there are roughly 1600 rough sleepers in Westminster per annum). Other newspapers are choosing this angle, pointing out that Westminster is one of the richest council's in the country, behaving as a reverse Robin Hood.

But interestingly, the prestigious St Mungo's (which itself began as a soup run in 1969) and Thames Reach, both London homelessness charities, are also backing this new ban. They say 'food handouts serve to keep people on the streets longer'.

Thames Reach has an article from 2007 on its site, written by their Chief Executive Jeremy Swain called "The Problem with Soup Runs". (click here to read it)

Jeremy's basic argument is that services aimed at rough sleepers ought to be more comprehensive than a basic handout of food: that they out to be brought indoors, where advice on accomodation and work etc can be properly given. This is clearly an ideal to be aimed for.

But the banning of soup runs goes against a gut instinct of those of us with a Home Address. It is a visible sign of charity; a mealtime easing of hardship and of the conscience of those of us with a fridge full of food at a place we call 'home'. This quandary is much like the International Aid question: a lot of aid clearly contributes to corruption, with figures proving this, and continued lack of improvement in countries where huge sums are flooding in. But does that mean we can comfortably turn the other cheek?

For me, the answer is this: we can't turn the other cheek, but we can coordinate and clarify our actions and aims. Very few people, except severely mentally ill cases, actually want to sleep rough (especially through the winter). With that as a basic premise, one can assume that soup runs alleviate some immediate discomfort, but with that soup needs to come a menu for escape from the streets.

Where the streets are paved with gold...

Today the free newspaper in London, the Evening Standard, has a central article about some homeless men in Ealing, who spend their nights in bin stores in order to have some shelter from our freezing winter temperatures.

Here's the link:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23914819-london-2011-homeless-men-forced-to-sleep-in-bins.do

People "sleeping in bins" is undoubtedly shocking in 21st Century London (and a great eye-grabber for headline writers) but what is more interesting in this story is the focus on immigrant status.

The men profiled by this article are largely Indian. The charity profiled is aimed at helping Sikhs (though they are clear that they do not do so exclusively). The stories told to us are those of immigrants, with or without visas, who've come to London, England because they believed our streets were 'paved with gold', and they thought they could make enough money to survive here whilst also sending some back to their families.

For me, the interesting question is not personal to these men, as unfortunate as their current situation is. It's the fact that this narrative is an endlessly repeating one; that they might make their fortune here near Big Ben. I've spoken to several homeless men who thought that, only to be rudely awakened upon arrival. They often don't realise that yes, you can get ahead in a cosmopolitan, vibrant city like London, but not if you turn up with nothing. Sleeping with the rats is one pay-check away for these people, if they manage to get that in the first place.

The most important question of all is this: What is going on in the world that men leave their wives and children, their parents, their language, their climate... and travel, often in dangerous conditions, halfway around the world, because they believe life is so much better here?

We have a globalised world, and a globalised problem. The only truly ethical way to stop these men ending up homeless on our streets is to rectify the disparity between their hometown and ours. Our streets ARE paved with gold to them, compared with where they're coming from; the irony is that even once they've made it here, society still won't let them get hold of any.

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.

I love London, but London does not love me

I was speaking to a couple of homeless Polish men recently.

One of them said he was very tired: he's working as a porter for a Mayfair hotel, for which he has to get up at 5.30am to receive deliveries. He had been to work on the Friday from 5.30 til the evening, and had then slept for two hours that night because he couldn't get a hostel place and was out sleeping rough, and then went to work from 5.30 all day again. I guess it must be cash in hand, otherwise he'd need a bank account and therefore an address. He said London isn't what he expected. He had a little bit of the dinner the shelter was serving up and then conked out on the camp bed.

I had a much longer conversation with the other guy. He said he's scared of the BNP. Not because of the possibility of them getting some political power (which even he didn't think was going to happen) but because of their influence on the ground. He said he encounters people who, as soon as they hear him speak Polish, or with his accent, they hurl abuse, or their fists, at him. Apparently he's encountered some charities or social services people who won't help him because he's not British.

He said he loves London but London does not love him.

Ou seule un sourire

I was in Paris for the day a while ago and whilst there I walked past a beggar bearing a sign reading “Un piece, un ticket de restaurant, ou seule un sourire” – “A coin, a restaurant coupon or only a smile”.

I think that's probably going to be more successful than some of the snarling rottweilers beggars in London sometimes accessorize with.

We have a distinctly romance-less begging culture. In Prague, beggars assume a position bending forwards on their knees with their elbows on the ground, holding their hands up in a cup shape in a sort of semi-religious pose of supplication. It looks awkward and uncomfortable, and perhaps works on the basis of utterly lowering their status in the eyes of passers-by, making them more inclined to throw a coin their way.

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.

Dave the Prophet

He had a greying beard and a khaki cap. He is actually the inspiration for the title of this blog, because he said that all he wants is a plot of earth to grow hemp on and a horse, and he'd be sorted. But that is not something he can have here in paved Britain. He wants to get to Australia or New Zealand where there's more space, more wilderness, where he might be able to just have a little plot of earth...

For now, or at least when I met him which I think was 2006, he's living in Peckham, sleeping out in the warmer months and on night-buses in the colder.

He was extremely eloquent. He often spoke in rhyme - in fact the first time I met him he bent towards me where I was sitting and he rhymed about Ken Livingstone! He spoke to me about the dishonesty of the world, and described himself as the little boy who points out that the Emperor has no clothes on - too truthful for society.

He spoke about the virtues of weed and the evils of the poppy.

He told me how he hates any sort of game; that there is no point to most of our forms of entertainment - we ought to be making something not being anaesthetized.

An incredible man, unable or unwilling to play the game society requires of him.

Linguist in disguise

This is just a short one - I encountered this guy twice, and he didn't seem to have a very good memory because he couldn't remember meeting me previously, despite it only being an hour or so ago.

His name was Carl and I'm not sure how old he was; he could have been 30, 40 or 50, I don't know. I also don't know what was 'wrong' with him - a smattering of autism? tourrettes? - he had tics and obsessions. He spoke like it wasn't a very easy physical process and his body moved awkwardly. I was with a French man and an Italian woman when I met him. When he realised that was where they were from, he started saying words in those languages. He later did the same thing to a Chinese speaker. It was a really interesting insight into someone who comes across like their intellect is somehow not fully operational, like their body, but he retains all these bits of languages.

He said something to me which was slightly hard to make out, but the jist of it was that if you read and work too much, your brain burns out. I wonder if that's what happened to him.

God Loves You

Yesterday, I met a man who wore a sleeveless, denim jacket with "God Loves You" emblazoned across the back.

I approached him and asked him if it was something he'd found which happened to have that on it, or if he'd put it on himself. He said that he had had it put on by somebody for him. While he was telling me this, I noticed a little wooden cross around his neck just peeking out from under his shirt. He had medium length hair that was implausibly healthy looking, of a rather lovely burnished brown colour. He had a beard too, which seemed to begin as the same hair as his head and become a wiry mass the further away from his face it got. His teeth were browning, his gums receding, and the finger and thumb he held his cigarette between were streaked with terracotta stains. He had laughter lines around his eyes.

He started to tell me his story. This is what he told me.

He worshipped the devil for 30 years - drink drugs depression schizophrenia - and was reduced to his lowest point in early 2006. He decided that there was no way he was going to wake up alive the next day, that he just couldn't face going on. He drank a bottle of vodka, but still couldn't find the courage to end it. He went to a Wetherspoons. While he was there, three men offered him a drink and to sit with them. One of them said to him that he looked like he was on a mission for a big night; he corrected him, explaining that he was just trying to end it, didn't want to live anymore. The man told him that he had terminal cancer.


The next day he woke up round the back of a supermarket. He was shaking like crazy and he saw himself in the reflection of a door and knew it was time to make a change. He went back to an area where he knew two people he trusted, who were part of the Salvation Army. He said they'd tried to help him the previous year. The woman, who was one of the two people he trusted, came along and asked him what was wrong. He told her he just wanted to end it. She stayed with him all day and took him home later, let him shower and eat, gave him some clean clothes.
She and her family were going to church that evening, and so he went with them in order to get the lift back into the part of town (I think this was all in London but he didn't say) where he sleeps. He went to church, and didn't think much about it.

The next morning he woke up, and the first words out of his mouth were a prayer to God. From then on, he says, his whole outlook changed. He says from that moment on he has had no dependency on drink, drugs, no depression, and that he knows God changed everything for him at that moment. He did say he'd had one relapse with drink, for 3 months a year or so ago, because of woman trouble!!

He is an intelligent man. He now lives on the streets, sleeping in a carpark, and believing and trusting wholly in the religious maxim "God will provide". I said to him that we can't all live according to that - because then there wouldn't be the people walking past who get him a meal etc. He said that it comes at different times for different people. He asked me if I'd trust my father to feed and clothe me - that is how God is for him. He mentioned that demons walk the earth, but we didn't go into that further.

He told me that he recently returned from an attempt to get to Jerusalem, where he wants to live for a month or so and then go to work on a Kibbutz. He set off with no money or anything, after a 'copper' helped him out and bought him a Eurostar ticket. In 5 weeks, he had made it to the Turkish-Syrian border. And there he got turned back, because he didn't have a visa. He doesn't beg - he takes what people choose to give him, but doesn't ask for things - so he hung around in Turkey a bit, but people only gave him food, no money, so he couldn't raise the money for a visa. So he's back, and he's going to try again in March, this time with a visa (he has a passport, I checked).

There was a funny moment where I said he sounded like he collected alms, like Jainist monks, and he started doing a Monty Python impression - "alms! alms for the poor!"

The way he spoke about the world's geography was probably the most beautiful part of our conversation.
It was how I'd speak about going from Charing Cross to Covent Garden - left here, down to here, right here, through here - but his 'here' was replaced with France and Hungary and all these countries. A true mendicant holy man of the 21st Century.

I didn't get his name. But he did tell me where he tends to hang out in London, so I'm going to make sure I pass through sometime soon and have a cup of tea with him.

About this Blog

Today I am starting this blog to record and share with whoever might pass it by stories about the homeless characters I have met in London.

I don't intend to invade these people's privacy, but just to repeat to you freely told stories and philosophies from some of the most interesting people I've met; the London homeless.