The Homeless.

Stone Cold by Robert Swindells:

If you think sleeping rough’s just a matter of finding a dry spot where the fuzz won’t move you on and getting your head down, you’re wrong. Not your fault of course – if you’ve never tried it you’ve no way of knowing what it’s like, so what I thought I’d do was sort of talk you through a typical night. That night in the Vaudeville alcove won’t do, because there were two of us and it’s worse if you’re by yourself.

So you pick your spot. Wherever it is (unless you’re in a squat or a derelict house or something) it’s going to have a floor of stone, tile, concrete or brick. In other words it’s going to be hard and cold. It might be a bit cramped, too – shop doorways often are. And remember, if it’s winter you’re going to be half frozen before you even start. Anyway you’ve got your place, and if you’re lucky enough to have a sleeping-bag you unroll it and get in.

Settled for the night? Well maybe, maybe not. Remember my first night? The Scouser? ‘Course you do. He kicked me out of my bedroom and pinched my watch. Well, that sort of thing can happen any night, and there are worse things. You could be peed on by a drunk or a dog. Happens all the time – one man’s bedroom is another man’s lavatory. You might be spotted by a gang of lager louts on the lookout for someone to maim. That happens all the time too, and if they get carried away you can end up dead. There are guys who like young boys, who think because you’re a dosser you’ll do anything for dosh, and there’s a psycho who’ll knife you for your pack.

So, you lie listening. You bet you do. Footsteps. Voices. Breathing, even. Doesn’t help you sleep.

Then there’s your bruises. What bruises? Try lying on a stone floor for half an hour. Just half an hour. You can choose any position you fancy, and you can change position as often as you like. You won’t find it comfy, I can tell you. You won’t sleep unless you’re dead drunk or zonked on downers. And if you are, and do, you’re going to wake up with bruises on hips, shoulders, elbows, ankles and knees – especially if you’re a bit thin from not eating properly. And if you do that six hours a night for six nights you’ll feel like you fell out of a train. Try sleeping on concrete then.

And don’t forget the cold. If you’ve ever tried dropping off to sleep with cold feet, even in bed, you’ll know it’s impossible. You’ve got to warm up those feet, or lie awake. And in January, in a doorway, in wet trainers, it can be quite a struggle. And if you manage it, chances are you’ll need to get up for a pee, and then it starts all over again.

And those are only some of the hassles. I haven’t mentioned stomach cramps from hunger, headaches from the flu, toothaches, fleas and lice. I haven’t talked about homesickness, depression and despair. I haven’t gone into how it feels to want a girl-friend when your circumstances make it virtually impossible for you to get one – how it feels to know you’re a social outcast in fact, a non-person to whom every ordinary activity is closed.

So. You lie on your bruises, listening. Trying to warm your feet. You curl up on your side and your hip hurts, so you stretch out on your back so your feet stay cold and the concrete hurts your heels. You force yourself to lie still for a bit, thinking that’ll help you drop off, but it doesn’t. Your pack feels like a rock under your head and your nose is cold. You wonder what time it is. Can you stop listening now, or could someone still come? Distant chimes. You strain your ears, counting. One o’clock? It can’t be only one o’clock, surely? I’ve been here hours. Did I miss a chime?

What’s that? Sounds like breathing. Heavy breathing, as in maniac. Lie still. Quiet. Maybe he won’t see you. Listen. Is he still there? Silence now. Creeping up, perhaps. No. Relax. Jeez, my feet are cold.

A thought out of nowhere – my old room at home. My little bed. What I wouldn’t give for – no, musn’t. Musn’t think about that. No sleep that way. Somebody could be asleep in that room right now. Warm and dry. Safe. Lucky sod.

Food. God, don’t start on about food! (Remember that time in Whitby – fish and chip caff? Long, sizzling haddock, heap of chips like a mountain. So many, you had to leave some.) Wish I had them now.

Mum. Wonder what Mum’s doing. Wonder if she wonders where I am? How would she feel if she knew? I miss you, Mum. Do you miss me? Does anybody?

Chimes again. Quarter past. Quarter past one? I don’t believe it.

DSS. Are they considering my claim? (Not now they’re not – they’re sleeping. Snug as a bug in a rug.) Do they know what it feels like, kipping in a doorway? No.

And so it goes on, hour after hour. Now and then you doze a bit, but only a bit. You’re so cold, so frightened and it hurts so much that you end up praying for morning even though you’re dog tired – even though tomorrow is certain to be every bit as grim as yesterday.

And the worst part is knowing you haven’t deserved any of it.


Extract from “Stone Cold” by Robert Swindells

Cigarettes And Suicide:

And you wonder why a huge percentage of homeless people turn to drugs and alcohol in order to try and numb their pain and be able to sleep comfortably in a doorway or a disused carpark.

... They need to stop giving away billions of taxpayer dollars to foreign countries, and start building more homeless shelters, spend more money on programs to aid homeless people get rehabilitated and back into 'normal' society, counselling, therapy and medical treatment for those who are mentally ill... there is so much that the government MUST start doing before they can say things are so good here that we can afford to be helping out other countries...
Sorry, but that's the way I see it.

As far as whether to give money to a homeless person or not, well, I think some of you are naive, some are overly cynical, and the majority of you just don't understand what homeless people are going through.
I used to be one of those people who would go buy a Big Mac and give it to a homeless person, but I realise now that it's probably not the best course of action.
My husband's father was homeless for a good many years, so he knows how homeless people think - and he pointed out to me that if a person is going to give them anything, then just give them money for booze or drugs or food or whatever *they* want to spend it on.
Seriously, I agree with him now that I can see that point of view - think about how a homeless person feels. Think about how they survive, day to day. They barely manage. Why do you think so many of them turn to drugs and alcohol to escape reality? I would now seriously rather give a homeless person a $20 bill so they could just go get drunk for the rest of the week, or get high for a couple of days, or whatever. Being high/drunk is what gets them through the day, it's the one small pleasure they have in a life that is otherwise filled to the brim with despair.
I'd rather know that I made a person happy by allowing them to go get some cheap cask wine, than know I haven't helped at all by buying them greasy fast food (and I still lose money anyway). I know I'd rather be high or drunk and maybe be able to get a decent night's sleep, rather than feeling the concrete beneath my back and the cold air in the middle of winter.

Gerardness:

Yeah but giving them money makes them buy alchol and drugs