We’d been there for four months when out of the blue Stevie told me he needed to move back to Swansea to look after his mother who had been taken seriously ill. I’m sure he’d only stayed around this long until he felt I was okay. That’s typical of Stevie; always putting other people first.
Naturally I was sad to see him go, but on the other hand I understood. There’s nothing like having a loving family.
After the shock of the incident with ‘Mr Angry’, I find myself back at the rear of The Albion Hotel. It’s a place where I feel relatively safe. The room service might be non-existent but the spot I have is sheltered. Because of this, I don’t call it ‘The Albion’; I have nicknamed it ‘The Ritz’, because for me it offers five-star accommodation compared to shop doorways and hostels.
There’s another reason too. The night porter, George Leeman, in his mid-forties and a gentleman in every sense of the word, once found himself in the same position. He took to living on the streets after losing his job, falling into debt and having his house repossessed, so he knows what it’s like. Fortunately his brother took him in, helped him get back on his feet and found him a job. On the nights he’s working, I can sometimes find a small bag of food from the kitchen leftovers.
George works a ten-hour shift five nights a week, from eight pm until six am. He usually takes his cigarette breaks on the other side of the hotel, but from time to time will come out to chat and make sure I’m all right. He’s a very private person and it took a long time before he eventually opened up about his experiences. I try not to ask questions but let him chat to me and tell me things when he’s in the mood.
Once every two or three weeks, I notice my ‘bed linen’ as I call it, which is actually a sleeping bag and two blankets, has been taken, washed and then returned. George never talks about this and when I try to thank him he just shrugs it off. I owe him big time.
I’ve been back here now for about three and a half hours. It’s ten o’clock – I know this because I’ve just heard the distant chimes of the clock from St Matthew’s Church – and if I leave now I can make it to Parker’s Piece where I’ll find the mobile charity tea stall. Usually three people are there –come rain, shine, snow or gale – taking abuse, getting spat at (or even worse) for no good reason, yet they give up their time for free. God bless them, I say.
Tonight there’s the usual mix of takers, and many more will arrive over the next couple of hours before they shut. I count fourteen of us including ‘The Two Ronnies’, so called because they are always together and one is a lot shorter than the other; Fergus McShane, your typical Glaswegian with a drink problem – (the problem being he will never be able to stop drinking until his liver collapses) – and ‘Young Ned’ with his dog ‘Buddy’.
I wait in line for my cup of tea and hot soup trying to avoid any conversation, which can be difficult when people are all fired up on drink or illegal substances. They want to engage you in conversation, ask you about trivial things, and often just don’t make any sense. Sleeping rough does that to you.
After I finish my plastic cup of tea and the vegetable soup given out tonight, I say a soft “thank you” to the people behind the counter and make my way back to ‘The Ritz’.
I’m anxious to avoid walking past the bars and clubs on my route as the teenage louts coming out into the night air after a few too many drinks like nothing more than to take out their frustration on anyone in sight. I’ve had a couple of beatings from them in the past. They’re fuelled by cheap alcohol deals and they really don’t care who they fight with or how far they go. They would gladly kick your head in without a second thought just so they can post it on social media sites and send it to their friends, saying, “Look what I’ve done.”
As it’s a Tuesday, my luck holds and the streets are quite empty. Fridays and Saturdays are the nights to avoid. I manage to return to my spot behind the Albion without any problems.
After Stevie left, and as I got to know George a little better, wooden pallets and a single mattress have ‘magically’ appeared. The pallets mean my body is not in contact with the ground when I sleep on the mattress and this helps to keep me warmer at night. While you’re tucked up in bed in your centrally heated home, people like myself are at the mercy of the elements. Sleeping on a concrete surface is horribly cold, even if you are lucky enough to have a mattress, and how many rough sleepers have that?
In summer, sleeping out of doors can be a bonus. However, in October, as we are now, the temperature can easily drop below zero and with no method of heating available, things can get really cold. Many homeless people become ill and this can affect them for life.
I’ve noticed the changes in myself. The loss of weight, the poor complexion, and my teeth are starting to discolour and hurt. I was twelve stones, but now I would guess I’m around ten. My belt has moved in three notches.
Life expectancy is usually much shorter if you’re homeless, particularly for those who turn to alcohol or drugs to try to escape from the harsh reality. Our prehistoric ancestors may have lived in the open, but if I remember my school lessons correctly their life expectancy was around thirty-five years.
You’ve probably never
