It was nine o’clock, and cold. I sat on my bed-roll with my backpack between my feet, watching the bright narrow rectangle of movement and colour at the end of my little tunnel. People passed continuously but nobody glanced my way. Nobody knew I was there. Across the street I could see subway railings with a news-vendor’s pitch, a road junction and part of King’s Cross Station. I sat thinking about my rat-faced former landlord who couldn’t spell negotiation – about how one day I’d catch him unawares in a dark alleyway, and about the inventive and wondrous things I’d do to him there. I was angry and a bit shaken, I suppose, but I wasn’t particularly unhappy. Not then. My anonymity was a comfort – at least I wasn’t going to be seen by people who knew me. Also, I was one among many. My plight could have no curiosity value for anybody who might spot me. And there was no further need to fret about next week’s rent. I felt – free, I suppose. This was before I became acquainted with some of the setbacks, like hunger pangs and real cold and the problem of what to do when you have to go to the lavatory and guard your bedroom at the same time. It was this last one which got to me first and lost me my doorway and more besides.

As I’ve said, I found my lovely doorway around nine o’clock, and for a time it was okay sitting there watching the world go by. In fact it was quite pleasant in a way. But by eleven my feet and legs were cold, I was tired, my bedroll was giving me a numb bum and I was dying for a pee. I saw no problem, though. The station was just across the way. There’d be toilets in there somewhere. All I had to do was stroll across. The numbness would go and the walk would warm me up. ’Course I’d have to take my stuff. If I left it back here in the dark it might be all right, but you can’t take that sort of chance when your bed-roll and backpack are all you have in the world. So.