One Thursday, when the sky was clear and blue, I decided to sit down in the blotchy sunshine outside the day centre. Timid rays were peeping through the clouds, like a shy bride waiting to make her appearance down the aisle. The street was busy but I drowned myself in my own thoughts, blotting out the sounds of the hurried crowds. I almost didn't notice when a tall, handsome guy came and sat next to me. Probably in his twenties, he appeared battered, despite his good looks, with a fluffy beard and large red eyes.
"You're new round here, aren't you?" said the man, who told me his name was Richard. "How long have you been sleeping rough?".
"It's my third week," I said.
"Not too long then, I've lost count of how long it's been for me," he smiled. "Do you want some weed?".
I told him the truth. That I had never been into drugs and that I didn't think now would be a good time so start, what with having no money and all. I told him I didn't drink, either.
"So what the fuck are you here for?" he asked.
At this point I could have dismissed him as an aggressive idiot. He was obviously an addict himself and I didn't like the way his wide eyes were staring at me. Yet there was something about his character that made me warm to him. Could he perhaps become my first homeless friend?
"It's a long story," I said. "I'm really not in the mood to talk about it right now.
He nodded and went silent for a moment. Then came a cheeky smile and he muttered something about the sunshine. I smiled back.
"Do you have a spare twenty pence?" He asked.
I laughed. No chance.
"So how do you get by for food in the evenings?"
We chatted about begging and my ability to charm the Asian shop keepers. He gave me another sly look.
"Follow me," he said. "I know where we can get hot food for free tonight."
We travelled together on the bendy bus to Stratford. It was the number 25 and as usual I slipped on without a ticket. Close up, I could smell the familiar aroma of cider on his breath. Richard told me he became homeless after he dropped out of University. Somehow he ended up losing his girlfriend and losing touch with his family. He was a heavy drug and alcohol user. I'm not sure which part of his story came first. He told me he believed in God and believed that it would soon be his time to go to heaven.
"Life is a bunch of time measures in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades and centuries," he said. "It is just time, nothing more."
"So you like to think you are living your 'time' rather than your 'life'?" I asked.
"Kind of," he shrugged. "Life is just a slow version of suicide. Every day you get a little closer to death. What does it matter if I die today or in a hundred years?"
"You are a sad soul," I said. Richard gave me another winning smile. "God is the only person who hasn't let me down."
At this point our bus reached Stratford. Richard jumped off and immediately started begging for twenty pence pieces. He told me this was his favourite amount.
"It's much easier to get 20p from five people than a whole pound from just one. People are often happy to get rid of their change"
I told him I never begged for money.
"Well you don't need money, mate. I do."
Richard was a heroin addict. He'd been out of rehab for three weeks and was now a regular user of Methadone, a heroin substitute he topped up with cider to get a hit. As well as being a beggar, he was a frequent shoplifter. But not tonight.
Our final destination was a Sikh temple in west London. It was impressive from the outside, but it was the inside that I adored most, a mass of vivid colours. Women draped in reams of sparkling material and men sporting elegant turbans in every shape and color. People from a huge range of backgrounds, all looking wealthy in their religious costumes. Holy chanting danced through the building. The floor was immaculate. Gleaming white tiles shone beneath strips of bright, embroidered carpets. Richard, the devout Christian, appeared to know everything about Sikhism. He told me to take off my shoes and to take an orange scarf and a turban from a pile at the entrance. Wearing our new clothes, we made our way into the kitchen, where an army of devoted volunteers was serving steaming hot meals on stainless steel plates. There was roti, cauliflower and potato curry. There was yoghurt and rice pudding. We scuttled off into a corner and Richard asked me to thank the Lord for our food. I felt surprised, confused and uncomfortable. Richard took the lead.
"Thank you oh Lord for this pleasant day and the great conversations we had. Thank you for the food you are providing for us this evening. Every grain has your name on it. May even the world's most unfortunate soul enjoy at least one meal every day. In the name of Jesus, Amen." I added a long "Ahhhhhhmeeeen."
After we had finished our sacred meal I asked Richard how he felt about taking food from the Sikh community, when he as such a devout Christian.
"The sheep always follows the Shepherd and the mouth speaks what the heard holds in abundance," he replied.
I kept quiet, feeling like I had committed a double blasphemy. I am not a believer, yet I had just joined in Christian prayers whilst sitting in a Sikh temple. Neither Saint Peter nor Guru Nanak would be proud of me, I thought. If Richard is preparing for his swift journey to heaven then surely I am opening the door to hell.
We finished our food, washed our hands and left the building. Richard found some cider at a nearby off licence.
"Where, next?" I asked.
"Heathrow Airport."
