Once upon a time

Standing there I wondered how much of what we had

felt on the bridge was just hunger. I asked my wife and

she said, 'I don't know, Tatie. There are so many sorts

of hunger. In the spring there are more. But that's

gone now. Memory is hunger.'

As I walk into the steamy hall I am overcome by both noise and smell. Voices screech and purr and frying sausages spit at the walls of the tiny kitchen and I walk around a spreading puddle of tea on the dirty linoleum floor before taking up my place at the counter that divides us from them. I breathe deep and for a moment the comforting haze of imminent nourishment I sign both my name and Gwydian's and proceed to find an empty seat where we can sit comfortably with Boo. . Another second and the reek of urine and tobacco behind me and I am nauseated.   We make our way to the corner of the room with two windows (which are both filled; the body in the right hand corner, his grimy jeans all that I can see, shouts down at his friend to confirm a later drug exchange, and the body out the left hand window is smoking - smoking what I am not quite sure) and we sit down. We wait for our names to be called as we glance around the room.  We are the 'newbies' so no one really bothers us, though I hear talk of 'the Americans' in the other dining area. Shivering, I decide against asking if one of the boys will close a window and instead decide to head to the back room to see if there are any sweaters on offer. This is a regular part of the day, the closest I get to shopping. I suppose it is sort of like a sample sale, everyone grabs for the best they can find out the donated items heaped up in the back room of the 'Centre'.  Most go on to sell them, either on the  street, online, or to a local charity shop; given the quality I imagine they make a bit of coin. St, Albans is quite an affluent town. Sometimes you can get really lucky; I have found a beautiful Ed Hardy tee-shirt and a designer raincoat. Unfortunately the pair of navy blue and cream polka dot wedge heels (really it did work!) I adore  are in a size nine, not even close to my size, even if I pad them. Damn! But then I unearth a pair of knee-high leather boots that only need a good polishing and they fit perfectly now that I have not eaten in a few days and walked to town and back from the edge of St. Albans. Not that I am going anywhere to dress up, that I can wear these items. I need a sweater and if anything a pair of wellies. I can't walk in heels anyway, it's way too painful, not to mention impractical.  I find a big, comfy sweatshirt, only missing it's tie. Generally I wouldn't step foot out of the house in an outfit that screamed chav, but given I don't have a house to step out of I suppose it doesn't matter.

I am the only girl among around fifteen guys. It is hard to tell who is the 'in' crowd but I soon am aquainted with who seems to be the 'top dog',  his bad 'gangsta rap' screaming out of the tiny speakers of his phone (how does a homeless person wind up with a £400 pound phone?! Sorry stupid question I suppose, moving on…) the tinniness of the sound scratches at my brain and makes me wince. That is until someone lurches in the door and straight into me, covering me in hot coffee, My senses are reeling…