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Admittedly I don't really like people all that much. I remember once being greeted by an almost Biblical scene at the railway station in Delhi, piles of women and children sleeping on the platform, mere piles of rags. I have helped the homeless in India in the past on working holidays. When I arrived, a smart couple were dropping off half a dozen tins of luxury biscuits.
Which is why I find myself driving - on Christmas Eve, no less - to volunteer in a homeless shelter with an extremely heavy heart. They like doing what they do, they won't want help. Whenever I've been in the proximity of a homeless person before, I have rushed past. They always seem to shout out something embarrassing. I have no patience with people who can't help themselves, who remain ignorant despite a free education, libraries, the internet... His name is Kit, and he's one of the trustees of the shelter which will stay open, 24 hours a day, until the New Year. By night, he supervises the 400 volunteers who will turn up this week to ensure that up to 150 homeless people a night get a festive meal, entertainment, showers, medical care and a warm bed.
'God, the trains must be really late,' I said to my companion. In the corridor are boxes and boxes of organic fruit, veg and meat from Riverford, a small Somerset company.
One of the supervisors, Rose, says: 'Remember that if you do laundry for the guests [those who come here are never called homeless, or victims, but always guests], shake the clothes first in case of needles [the loos have blue lights, to make locating a vein in order to inject very difficult]. Salmon steaks with cheese sauce, a vegetarian option of pasta bake. I ask if he has a mobile number, and he looks at me as if I've asked where he parked his Porsche.
If you are on the door, remember to collect any bottles of alcohol, label them, and lock them in the cupboard. The guests police themselves - they don't want to be ejected.' I go into the kitchen to help first. There's broccoli, roast potatoes, jam sponge, Christmas cake, mince pies. Steve, the chef, hands me an apron and a pair of gloves. 'I could do with not being here this evening, I have so much to do! 'My family do worry, but I always promised myself I would give something back.' I ask whether she had any preconceptions about homeless people before she started working here. It turns out she has just been to see her children, who have been taken away from her, and didn't even have the money to take them a card. A fairly respectable man comes up to get a cup of tea. (Wendy tells me later that it is so sad to see how people disintegrate on the street. My eyes automatically swivel to check the location of my Michael Kors tote. At the end of the night, I walk back to my car, to my warm, cosy life, and decide I'm going to go back to that square to find David, and I'm going to try to help him.
I meet a man called Alan, who is 49, but, what with his lameness, his lack of teeth and his weather-beaten face, he might just as well have told me he was 80. He replies: 'We are all just five steps away from being on the street.
I feel as though I've been tipped back into Victorian England. It can happen through a relationship breaking up, abuse, mental illness or just through sheer bad luck.' And then I meet David.
If you are nervous about talking to anyone, try offering them a cup of tea or a sandwich. ' We all stand, and I feel like I've just been briefed for the Battle of Britain. A trained chef, he now works in human resources, but he will be here all week supervising. I'm standing between Sarah, who by day works in a bank - 'I'm not very popular at the moment! 'I used to, but they are just like you and me.' I stand at the door to the lounge, which by 5pm is filling up fast with people of all shapes and sizes. 'At first, they are smart and clean, and then as time goes on they become more and more dishevelled.') The man tells me he lost his job, started drinking and having rows with his wife. Everyone is excited that this evening, a beautiful, 24-year-old acoustic singer called Sophie will be performing Beatles songs as well as her own compositions for the guests. Only took a few weeks.' David is fiercely independent and wary of rules, probably because, given his status, he is always bossed about, moved on, told what to do. 'No, not with other homeless people, mainly because I don't drink, or take anything.' He says he is going to stay for dinner, but that he won't sleep in the dorm, preferring the independence, the peace and quiet, of his bench.
She turfed him out, and now he has lost everything: his home, his children. (I tease her that most singers her age would focus all their energy on winning The X Factor, and she gives me a hard stare). It could almost be Daniel Galvin in Mayfair, so thick and fast come the requests for a booking. This is her first time doing the hair of the homeless, and she's a bit nervous. 'I felt Christmas had become really shallow,' she says. I say it must be hard, unable to have a girlfriend or children.
Surely these people are mostly drug addicts, drunks and prostitutes.
There are crates of yogurt and milk from Yeo Valley Organic, and millions of orange Sainsbury's carrier bags everywhere.
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