I was found by the Thames outreach team as I was waiting for the 149 night bus to London Bridge. Two, charming women questioned me about my homelessness and told me that I could get help. They took my name and previous address and asked me to meet them the next morning at a day centre in Brick Lane. I spent the night sleeping on the bus and walked there as soon as the sun came up.
Brick Lane is a strange place. The majority of the area's population is Bengali. They are short and dwarf-like. Curry houses seem to mushroom on either side of the street. Spices linger in the damp air. Some of the nearby estates resemble a slum. When I arrived at the day centre, one of the women was waiting for me. She introduced me to a few other members of staff who registered my arrival and guided me towards a dining hall, where I was given breakfast and told I could I have my first shower in fifteen days. Fifteen days of filth.
The scene in the bathroom was one of despair. I had the shock of my life when I looked in the mirror and saw the scrawny, professional beggar staring back at me. I had lost almost two stone in just over a fortnight. But as I changed into some new, donated clothes, my body and mind started to feel clean again, born again. I was given a chain number which meant that I would be allowed back for breakfast every morning at 8am. I was also seen by a counsellor and paid a visit to the nurse for a quick check-up.
This might sound like the beginning of my route back into mainstream society, but in reality this was the first time that I had been truly immersed in the world of homelessness. No longer alone, I was now mixing with a breed of people I had never previously encountered. Huddled over mugs of warm tea and coffee I saw a sea of muddled souls, broken hearts and bodies battered by miles of rough sleeping. A rainbow of creeds, cultures and ethnicities. A tiny village of tramps, travellers and fading revellers. A panorama of drug addicts, alcoholics and lunatics. The smell was as strange as the view. The entire building was intoxicated by the fumes of puke and phlegm and coughs and cigarettes and cider. I worried about coping in this environment. I worried about being accepted by this community. I worried about how I would explain my own path into homelessness.
And then I caught a glimpse of one of the thinnest men I have ever seen. A rake-like, fleshless soul with a beard grown down to his naval. His long, matted hair fell over his shoulders. His clothes were so dirty it looked like he had spent decades hugging mother earth. His nails were as dark as tar. This man was a mobile corpse, waiting for judgement day in the corridor of death. He scared the hell out of me. I started feeling dizzy and sick. It was almost noon and the centre didn't provide lunch. It was time for me to leave this stinking place and breathe in the fresh air of the capital.
As I walked, I enjoyed the wonderful sensation of feeling clean. Yet thinking about that shower reminded me that I had let go of the simple daily routines that punctuate our lives. It is a difficult apprenticeship learning how to shed these habits. I thought back to the nights I had already spent on the streets and the days and nights that were still to come, blurring and blending together: repulsive, tedious, dull. As a homeless person you give up so many simple pleasures: getting out of bed in the morning, padding over to your own bathroom, letting your thoughts wander idly as you have a shave or clean your teeth, putting your face under the shower head and feeling the warm, soapy water run down your body.
For the next week I had a new routine. I would arrive early at the day centre, queue to get my breakfast ticket, queue to pick up my food, queue to get into the toilets, queue to take a shower. My life was consumed by queueing, surrounded by dirt.
