At this time of year I remember Paul. He was homeless and had his own spot near Argos and Chandos Street car park. I often used to chat to him as did many others in our town. He left home aged 13. Now in his mid-30s, he had a teenage daughter who sometimes called by to speak to him. He had kicked a drink problem and for that reason, he avoided some of the homeless hostels because he didn’t want to get back on the habit.
During the day, he tried to sleep because clubbers were noisy in the early hours and some taunted, urinated on him. He used to wash, tidy himself up in the toilets in Royal Priors, though he wasn’t really allowed to.
One Christmas, someone took him in for Christmas Day. He had a shower and good food. People gave him gifts – a new sleeping bag, trainers, biscuits and paperbacks. He loved to read. He had a social worker who was trying to find him somewhere to live.
Another time, he disappeared. I heard that he went to Birmingham, weary of waiting. I used to look out for him when I walked through the city underpass on my way to the library.
How true was his story? I don’t know. It appeared in the local paper and that was similar. The key point was that he was homeless and he had a way of sharing that experience.
Experiences, whatever they are, change who we are. For those of us who are writers, they inform and colour our writing.
Emily Dickinson wrote: Tell the truth but tell it slant.
I have often written about Paul – not the specific details, but people we don’t see, the earth we don’t know and the parts of ourselves we are unfamiliar with.
Similarly I read about the Paul’s I don’t know, the places I’ve not visited, the complexity of our minds and and our strange or odd ways of behaving.
This will be my last blog of 2025 and wish you all, happiness and peace. Especially those who have enjoyed my posts!
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