First Impressions

I’ve been here a little while; I could have started writing sooner, probably should have as now there are undoubtedly entries already AWOL from the memory bank, but I was settling into a new environment, adjusting physically and mentally and getting busy with plenty of distractions and things that I don’t really need to be doing…..

I arrived on foot.  It was a long walk but thanks to a passable sense of direction and route maps at bus stops I have successfully navigated thus far.  My feet hurt, probably blistered.  One hand hurts from gripping the handle on my mobility stick, definitely blistered.  I am a little tired, a little hungry, a lot penniless and I have no idea what the coming night will have in store for me.  I take temporary refuge at the train station; it is warm, bright, and there are plenty of places to sit.  I feel more than a little intimidated by some of the crowds especially the small clans of male silver-backs half shouting and half slurring at each other while marking their territory by scattering take-away fries from the outlet on the concourse.  Midnight fast approaches and I know I must step into the unknown and think about somewhere to bed down.

The city centre is positively buzzing with people; every side road I venture down seems to be busier than the main thoroughfare.  Late Friday night is not the best time to start exploring or accidentally stumbling upon something I don’t want to be in the midst of; perhaps the mental images are the result of too many Hollywood storylines about the guy who just took a wrong turn, but in any case I resolve to head back to the path more trodden. It is difficult to judge the scale of the area and gauge the general layout plus street lighting can do strange things to one’s sense of perspective.  I am bombarded by sights, sounds, a heady mix of ages and cultures and of course there are the homeless too.  Some are curled up in sleeping bags in shop doorways.  Others are stationed by cash machines; daring yet understandably enterprising and the general population are looking kindly upon those asking for spare change.  I feel the urge to draw back and take stock so I head back towards the rail station.

Even at this hour the concourse is busy and the constabulary are busy clearing the area of anyone who is not a fare paying rail traveler e.g. me.  I sit on the approach road on the step of an empty shop, my presence partially obscured by the shadows.  A man shuffles erratically in my general direction; he has found an unopened can of beer and an umbrella.  He seems particularly pleased with the umbrella even though it is not raining.  I apologise to his request for any spare change and confess when he asks if I am homeless too.  I hear his story and tell him mine then we sit briefly in silence as if waiting for Godot.  My new acquaintance is asking every passer-by for spare change; the requests are met mostly by ignorance or apology but occasionally a handful of coins changes hands.  A third person joins us and recounts tales, perhaps urban myths, of some of the bounties to be had from working the streets.  He disappears back into the night leaving us once again quietly contemplating the surroundings.  In due course, a police car pulls up adjacent to where we are sitting and a voice from within politely thanks us for the anticipated cooperation in moving away from the station.

I wander slowly once again to an area where the crowds are thinner and stop to listen to a couple of street musicians.  It feels like eyes are upon me, which rather than paranoia is more than likely the case; I am of unusual stature and appearance and my leg brace and mobility stick generally seem to draw interest albeit the silent kind.

I amble about aimlessly for a while longer, the crowds seemingly becoming less as the Friday night starts to draw to a close.  My mind once again turns to finding somewhere suitable to rest up for the night.  I chance upon somewhere which seems to be a good place; it offers a good amount of shelter from the elements, there are air vents providing a stream of warm(ish) air and most importantly the spot does not seem to be taken; if one thing is guaranteed to cause friction it is sitting on somebody else’s patch.

A quick glance at my watch and I mentally start counting down; the streets will become empty and I can hopefully feel relaxed and secure enough to close my eyes.  As time rolls on it dawns on me, as indeed the day dawns, that this is a city which does not sleep.  For want of anything better to do I pick myself up off the ground, dust myself down and amble back towards the rail station.  I bump once again into my earlier acquaintance and we chat for a while about life in the city.  It occurs to me that I have not slept in two days or eaten in three days, yet I feel neither tired nor hungry.  I am offered some pointers on “grafting” – begging on the streets – and the pros and cons of sticking to a pitch or moving around.  I am dubious about my “fund raising” abilities; I have never been what you might call a salesman and I did not come here to beg.  On the other hand I did not come here to give up either and my pockets were as empty as my stomach – a quick count-up revealed that I was the proud owner of the princely sum of absolutely nothing.  I had nothing to sell to make a fast buck: no mobile phone of jewellery.  I sat back down in my newly acquired spot and watched the world go by, the nightlife and revellers slowly replaced by street cleaners, delivery drivers and eventually the weekend workforce.