Cake, sticky tape, paper cups. I close the list in my head and continue down the street. It’s eight in the morning, the birds are done, their song replaced by the opening of shutters, footsteps, the odd greeting. ‘Good morning.’ ‘Terrible day.’

Moore Street is not the prettiest street in Dublin but it has a comfortable feel at this early hour. Traders pulling their stalls into position. Same stalls. Same positions. Fruit and veg, flowers and fish. The pungent smell from the fish stall forces me to hold my breath. I hurry past but the stench still manages to creep into my nostrils.

At the top of the street, I cross the main thoroughfare and enter the coffee shop on the corner.

‘The usual, Sal?’ Graham, the coffee guy, already has his hand on the barista machine preparing my order when I step inside. There’s no one else here but in an hour’s time the queue will be out the door.

‘Thanks, Graham.’ I hand him the exact change which I always have ready in my pocket. Then take my order and leave.

When the boys were born, I cut my working hours to three days a week. Perfect, time for everyone, including myself. But circumstances beyond my control forced me back to work full time. And even though I’d prefer to be at home with Tom and the kids, it’s not the worst thing. I get to put make-up on first thing in the morning. Scan my thinning closet for something fashionable to wear and put my feet in high-heeled shoes. My day is spent in the company of adults, though at thirty-seven years old, I’m regarded as one of the old folk now.

Elsie is sitting in the usual spot outside the shop front when I arrive. Everything she possesses packed into two bags tucked tightly on either side of her worn frame. For the last two years she has sat under the narrow shelter provided by a small awning jutting out from the salon. This is the spot where she opens her sleeping bag at night and dreams about having a roof over her head someday. Elsie never speaks about the circumstances that led her to being homeless. But everything about her suggests it was not always the case. Her clothes, her skin, her knowledge of which restaurants to visit and which to avoid. I’ve been tempted to ask her how she lost it all and to tell her I nearly did too. But something in her dignity stops me, tells me not to go there, just let it be.

‘Thank you, Sally,’ she smiles, her teeth still holding up under the strain. She takes the bag from my hand, immediately opening it to get at the coffee and croissant.