And don’t forget the cold. If you’ve ever tried dropping off to sleep with cold feet, even in bed, you’ll know it’s impossible. You’ve got to warm up those feet, or lie awake. And in January, in a doorway, in wet trainers, it can be quite a struggle. And if you manage it, chances are you’ll need to get up for a pee, and then it starts all over again.

And those are only some of the hassles. I haven’t mentioned stomach cramps from hunger, headaches from the flu, toothache, fleas and lice. I haven’t talked about homesickness, depression or despair. I haven’t gone into how it feels to want a girl-friend when your circumstances make it virtually impossible for you to get one – how it feels to know you’re a social outcast in fact, a non-person to whom every ordinary everyday activity is closed.

So. You lie on your bruises, listening. Trying to warm your feet. You curl up on your side and your hip hurts, so you stretch out on your back so your feet stay cold and the concrete hurts your heels. You force yourself to lie still for a bit, thinking that’ll help you drop off, but it doesn’t. Your pack feels like a rock under your head and your nose is cold. You wonder what time it is. Can you stop listening now, or could someone still come? Distant chimes. You strain your ears, counting. One o’clock? It can’t be only one o’clock, surely? I’ve been here hours. Did I miss a chime?

What’s that? Sounds like breathing. Heavy breathing, as in maniac. Lie still. Quiet. Maybe he won’t see you. Listen. Is he still there? Silence now. Creeping up, perhaps. No. Relax. Jeez, my feet are cold.

A thought out of nowhere – my old room at home. My little bed. What I wouldn’t give for – no, mustn’t. Mustn’t think about that. No sleep that way. Somebody could be asleep in that room right now. Warm and dry. Safe. Lucky sod.

Food. God, don’t start on about food! (Remember that time in Whitby – fish and chip caff? Long, sizzling haddock, heap of chips like a mountain. So many, you had to leave some.) Wish I had them now.

Mum. Wonder what Mum’s doing? Wonder if she wonders where I am? How would she feel if she knew? I miss you, Mum. Do you miss me? Does anybody?

Chimes again. Quarter past. Quarter past one? I don’t believe it.

DSS. Are they considering my claim? (Not now they’re not – they’re sleeping. Snug as a bug in a rug.) Do they know what it feels like, kipping in a doorway? No.