Did I help the homeless... or did THEY help ME?
(I helped them.)
#29. Help the Homeless
‘I’m nervous. I don’t want to have to make small talk. What do I have in common with a homeless person?’
‘You used to be homeless’, she reminded me.
‘But now. What do I have in common with them now?’
It was a fractious journey, my wife and me, driving into the big city so I could help the homeless. It hadn’t been easy to arrange – in fact it was quite difficult. Every charity had an application process and demanded big commitments. I’d wanted to help the needy, but not that much. Luckily, Refuge International – you might see them handing out sandwiches on the Strand – had accepted me, and I was annoyed to be running late. I’d got held up at home (not that I expected them to know anything about that).
I threw the car into a space and legged it, leaving Jasmine to struggle alone with baby and pram. ‘Got to dash, help the homeless’, I blurted.
‘You’re so selfish’, came the reply.
I made it just in time; they threw me right in at the deep end. They gave me some rubber gloves and stood me at a foldaway table, the only thing separating me from another life entirely, behind a buffet of dishes hot and cold. It was good food, homemade. There was even a dessert stall - with mini marshmallows! Jammy bastards.
It was a kind of assembly line – the chap next to me, spooning out pilau rice, me handing out sandwiches and fruit. Those queuing would point at the food they wanted, and I would pick it up and move it 8cm into their hand. It felt like a job that could be lost to AI. Or, a pair of tongs.
They were nice; dignified. Just normal people, like you or me, from diverse backgrounds.
One, with a heavy Scottish accent, joked, ‘Bananas? Can’t too many or I’ll turn into a moonkeh!’
Another, a young girl who, with respect, looked quite normal, was embarrassed to be there. ‘Is it free? I just lost my wallet. I’ve been to the police station about it. Do you know where I can get the 364? I don’t know because I lost my wallet. It’s free, right?’
Some were surprisingly picky. Two different people said no to sandwiches because they were watching their weight. Others, less so; one, with two chins and a Saddam moustache, helped himself to everything and came round twice.
A tall, older gentleman, quintessentially English in a tweed suit and patchy beard, approached me with wide eyes and an eager smile. ‘It’s like a jumble sale! Remember jumble sales? Everything was all jumbled. At the church. The jumble sale?’
Some people needed the human contact more than the food. (Well maybe not more than the food.)
When the queue had died down, we packed up the remaining snacks and walked around looking for homeless people – not an easy task to work out who is dishevelled and emaciated by choice versus circumstance in Soho. We stopped to give food and conversation to rough sleepers, some of whom looked painfully thin; people I would normally never even notice, just part of the street.
It’s hard to explain, but it felt great to be giving something. I wanted to do it again.
Every time I’ve see a homeless person outside a Tesco, or a Greggs, or a Wenzels (but not a Waitrose), I’ve offered to buy them something to eat. A habit that feels so good, my wife likened it to crack.
I really urge you to try it. Donating, that is (not crack).
If you had to be homeless, which city would you like to be homeless in?