I’m getting used to my name. Breaking it in like a pair of new boots. Good morning. Shelter, I say to the bathroom mirror. Smiling. Good morning. Shelter. You’re a handsome devil but you’re idle, lad. You need a shave. I’ve been writing it, too, on the backs of old envelopes. Shelter. Shelter. Shelter. It’s starting to look like an authentic signature already. I realize of course that all this has precious little to do with recruiting, and perhaps you think I’m stalling. Putting it off.

Not so. I’m merely indulging myself. After all there’s plenty of time. The street people aren’t going to go away, and anticipation is the best part of a treat, as my old grannie never used to say. So it’s a case of wait for it, you ’orrible little man.

I didn’t come to London straightaway. I may be homeless and unemployed but I’m not stupid. I’d read about London. I knew the streets down here weren’t paved with gold. I knew there were hundreds of people – thousands, in fact – sleeping rough and begging for coppers. But that’s just the point, see? In Bradford I stuck out like a sore thumb because there weren’t many of us. The police down here have got used to seeing kids kipping in doorways, and mostly they leave you alone. In Bradford I was getting moved on every hour or so. I was getting no sleep at all, and practically no money. People up there haven’t got used to beggars yet. They’re embarrassed. They’ll make large detours to avoid passing close to you, and if somebody does come within earshot and you ask for change, they look startled and hurry on by.

Also, I kept seeing people I knew. Neighbours. Guys I’d been at school with. I even saw one of my teachers once. And if you’ve never been caught begging by someone who knew you before, you can’t possibly know how low it makes you feel.

I wasn’t out every night, back then. That was the one good thing about it. Once or twice a week I’d show up at my sister’s for a bath, a meal and a decent night’s sleep. Trouble was, I was getting scruffier and scruffier, which happens if you sleep in your clothes, and Chris, Carole’s feller, got resentful of my visits. He didn’t actually say anything to me, but I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his tone of voice, and I knew Carole must be catching hell from him every time I’d been there. So, what with one thing and another, I decided it was time to move on.