I first became homeless while in Scotland, having foolishly stretched my
credit with my bank and my credit card to the limit, and I returned to my
home town in England having had no sleep for 48 hours. I was pleased so
many people rushed to my aid. My friends shed crocodile tears and fondly
waved goodbye. My wife said I mustn't stay in the marital home, now we
were separated and she was living on income support. The DSS refused a
crisis loan and referred me to a home for the homeless which turned out
to be full. A lady from Citizens Advice recommended a place which was
all locked up, as the management were on holiday. My financial adviser
advised he couldn't arrange a loan on the equity of my home, because I
was out of work, having quit my job because of a woman who wouldn't
stop talking and interrupting my work in accounts.
There is nothing like anger to get the feet moving and I desperately wanted
away from the township I'd lived and worked in for 25 years. I was 58 and
after a lifetime in work I had nothing. I was destitute, homeless and
shunned by my own community. I was planning to take on temporary work at
the time, but was too tired and distressed to follow my application through.
Meanwhile I was told I wouldn't get dole for at least eight days, which was
too late for my needs. Thankfully, seeing my distress, my doctor gave me a
sick-note, which meant I would have some money to live and I managed to
scrounge ten pounds from my wife to keep me in food for a fortnight until
my money came through.
Luckily I had a rucksack and sleeping bag, which kept me alive for the next
few months, searching in vain for lodging in various towns in the area.
I lived on bread and jam, chocolate and orange squash, sleeping in shop
doorways, bus shelters and on grass verges and once under the arch of a
bridge which spanned a river. I stayed in youth hostels when money allowed
and switched to the dole in an effort to find a job, purchasing a jacket and
shoes from a charity shop and cleaning up my ragged appearance as best I
could, but sadly I had no success.
My feet finally took me to Cambridge, the place where once as a boy I'd
applied for a place in a college. One night it was bitterly cold, with a
chilling wind that took your breath away. There was frost in the air and
you could feel it nipping your fingers and toes. I walked along the Victoria
Road, looking for somewhere away from the wind where I wouldn't be disturbed.
At length I came across a small hospital, with its warm, welcoming lights
inside. I thought, if only they would let me in and let me sleep in some
corner or box-room away from the wind, but I knew it was hopeless. Hospitals
are not for the homeless. I turned away and found a small patch of grass
beneath some trees in the hospital grounds, hoping no-one would see me and
move me on. I had two pairs of trousers and extra socks to keep me warm in
my sleeping bag. I was luckier than some, no doubt, that night. The trees
were handy if I should have a call of nature, as the public loo was shut at
night.
In the morning I was up and away like a frightened rabbit, as I knew that
I was trespassing. I walked a mile or so to the shops to buy a cold drink
and a sandwich and waited for the loo to open. I managed to get a wash and
shave, but the water was icy cold. Then I waited to start my job selling
newspapers at a roadside kiosk. I was desperately tired, which seemed to
annoy my boss, but I don't think there were ant other contenders, as the
money wasn't too good. Sometimes I slept in the multi-storey car-park, with
cars going by till the early hours, but at least it was out of the wind.
I was hoping to save enough money for the deposit and first week's rent
on a place, which has to be paid before one can claim housing benefit.
Sadly I found that most landlords refuse to deal with anyone living on
state support. However, by this time I was becoming terribly stressed
through lack of sleep and anxiety, and after a couple of weeks in the job
my head gave in and I was taken to hospital with the first of a number of
manic attacks, when I lost all touch with reality.
After a year on pills which wrecked my confidence and my concentration, I
was given a flat by my local council. Six years on I am still on pills and
monthly injections. If I had only been given sufficient support when I
first became homeless, with dole money straight away and a bed somewhere
to rest my head, I might have obtained another job in accounts, which would
have saved the state a fortune in hospital care, housing and council tax
benefit and ongoing medical treatment.
I believe it was Margaret Thatcher who made benefit payable in arrears, out
of step with the need and I understand from my local MP that there are now
400,000 homeless in England, many herded in hostels, living on state support.
It seems to me there is no such thing as a safety net for the newcomer to
the street, or if there was I fell straight through it!