Last night I slept outside.
As soon as I was instituted as vicar of St Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square six months ago, this was something I knew I needed to do. St Martin’s has shaped its life around people with nowhere to turn since the First World War, when it gave shelter to soldiers toing and froing from the front via Charing Cross. If I was going to speak publicly about these issues I needed to know what sleeping outside felt like.
Of course I had precisely what most people in this situation don’t have – a network. Two people who often sleep outside took me under their wing. We went out at 8 p.m. We quickly headed for locations where food is hard to come by. Then my companions took me on a scavenger hunt. We called in some favours: a muffin from this coffee bar, hot water from that burger t, a chocolate bar from an off-licence where one of my friends has offered an unofficial protection service now and again. We sourced flattened cardboard boxes from the streets and newspapers from the stands to soften our bedding. It turned out another shopkeeper and hotelier habitually stored a sleeping bag or two in return for gifts in kind.
The night began around 11, after a few cigarettes and story time. My companions found a dry, windless garage outlet. But I didn’t sleep much. Every few seconds a car raced by or a shout or step announced that a (usually drunken) body was heading our way. One man even fell on top of me he was so loaded. Random, reckless violence filled the imagination, and inhibited sleep. Only at 3.30 a.m. did things settle down.
My companions showed me how to live – not just outside, but anywhere: with no self-pity, plenty of wit, and incredible resilience. Next time they get in trouble, I doubt they’ll come to me. But next time I get in trouble, I’ll most likely go to them.
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