Catherine Wilkinson takes to the streets of Preston, exposing the falsehood of homelessness. You could say it was like the Lady and the Tramp.
"Describe your life in three words," the tramp is asked. "Sh*t, awful, terrible and shi**ter - that's three isn't it?" grunts the homeless person, shivering unreservedly beneath a dog-eared and mud-ridden jacket. This is either a wry attempt at humour, or a prime example of the lack of education of the destitute.
"This isn't our usual home, we actually live in Avenham Park, in a tent - I brought it myself." The grouchy voice softens with a sense of achievement: "It can sleep two."
The doorway is reminiscent of a car boot sale, except no stall - just the clutter, and no opportunity for money to be made. A sleeping bag occupies one corner, and the weary eyes of the dweller flit anxiously from left to right; a sign of paranoia.
Kel tugs repeatedly at the sleeping bag in a neurotic manner. The 25-year-old is timid yet rowdy, and completely dependent on drugs. Anxiety and panic attacks are just two of the health conditions that the inhabitant has to deal with, triggered by the ordeal of such a poor standard of living.
After associating with the wayward crew at school, Kel dabbled in drugs and left home at the tender age of thirteen:
"The thing I miss most about my childhood is having a shelter - it was a nice warm home."
Except this is said more like: "a n-n-n-nice w-w-warm h-home." The stutter is either a speech impediment brought about by drug abuse, or chattering from the bitter temperatures on the Preston streets. Neither interpretation is acceptable.
The problems brought into Kel's household from drug-related crime created unbearable conflict, and the teenager felt like a burden. Education was never considered important, and qualifications were not necessary in Kel's pill-orientated life.
Soiled fingernails do nothing to beautify the worn hands, and a faded tattoo across Kel's knuckles reads: A C A B; not a failed attempt at the alphabet, but an acronym for 'All Coppers Are B******s.'
Kel's relationship with the police has always been negative. As a tearaway-teen, houses were burgled without a pang of conscience to feed the growing drug addiction, resulting in many a restless night at Lancashire Farms Young Offenders Institution:
"I did it for fun; I just wanted to make people's lives a misery because I was so miserable myself. It was selfish and I'd never consider doing it again. The cells were hellholes; I'd rather sleep on concrete."
Preston has no direct access night shelter for adults. The homeless are assessed by needs, after proving they have a local connection. Preston Council Housing Advisory provides an emergency out-of-hours service for adults, and Barnado's has a Moving On housing advice centre for 16-25 year-olds at the Urban Exchange. Kel falls at the end of this age margin, and expresses concern that the older generation of the homeless are often overlooked:
"Once you get to a certain age you are not important to the council anymore, they just cast you aside. It's only a matter of time before I become one of them, but I'm determined to make a change to my life before that happens."
Kel proclaims to be no layabout, working with Preston Community Drug Team, ADHD therapists and Lancashire Probation Trust, subverting the stereotype of the homeless as idle:
"I would love a job, I really would. One thing I would never do though is sell the Big Issue. It's not because I'm lazy, it's because I'm Preston born and bred. I have so many connections here, and would be embarrassed if any of my family saw me."
The slither of pride that Kel has retained, despite living on the streets for twelve years, is admirable.
It is getting dark, merrymakers stagger down the high street wearing next-to-nothing, ready for a night on the town.
"Alright darlin', you got any spare change sweetheart?"
The party-goers hastily march on, clearly with no remorse. Sat incongruously in a door way, surrounded by newspapers, cans, rubbish, and a tattered box, Kel is hardly invisible, but that was the impression created by the onlookers.
"What's the time love?" Kel asks with the greatest of curiosity. At eight o' clock the soup kitchen comes to the outdoor market, Kel evidently doesn't want to miss out. The marching of Kel up that street was reminiscent of the party-goers, except with more limping and less glamour. The same haste, but, actually it was nothing like them at all.
Members of Preston's Catholic Society are giving out soup and socks, in a bid to help the homeless. A clan of seven street dwellers form an orderly queue, their faces luminous with the prospect of warmth. Simon Desousa has worked with CathSoc for seven years and has seen, first hand, the difference the service has made:
"Many people start off severely addicted to drugs, we wean them off of these but they often turn to alcohol as a replacement. The homeless use alcohol to make them numb to reality and many think it will help keep them warm. The message we need to get across is that alcohol can contribute to hypothermia, which can be fatal."
Kel takes a gulp from the polystyrene cup which is brimming with now-tepid soup: "Tomato is my favourite." It is clear that 'favourites' don't come anywhere into this equation, the homeless have what is provided and are grateful for it.
When asked what the future brings, Kel replies with sincere optimism:
"As a child I used to dream that I would live in a nice settled home, get married, have kids and work like any normal person. Is that too much to ask? I don't think it is. That's all I've ever dreamed of, and all I want for the future."
The streetlights flicker and the wind begins to howl, in an hour or so Kelly will make her way back to the tent. It is sad to think that this paper could well become this lady's bedding tonight. Kelly has a six-year-old daughter who lives with her parents: "She's my biggest achievement, she's part of my dream, except in my dream I get to see her." The woman becomes saddened, sidling into the doorway with no air of grace.
The mood dampens like the very ground she sat on. The lady is the tramp.
