The Housing Support Office cares. It cares enough to give me shelter, a bed to sleep in and I am truly grateful. Cynics might say, "Well they are paid to care. It's their job." Maybe, but how many of us dreamt of being housing support workers when we left school? It's not the most financially rewarding job and there's no glamour or public adulation attached to it.

When I arrived at the Homeless Unit ten days ago, on Good Friday, I was dazed and confused; it had been an emotionally charged week and I had been made homeless at the stroke of a pen, my partner's pen. I was devastated. A member of staff was expecting me and, after signing a plethora of forms, she took me to my room with its brand new duvet on the bed. An hour earlier, my entire world seemed to have imploded; now I felt like the richest person on the planet.

Relief that I was not going to be sleeping on a park bench or huddled in a shop doorway was tinged with grief and disbelief. Only last week I had a partner, a home and had begun work as a volunteer at the local homelessness project. Coming here seemed to be taking ‘orientation training' a little too seriously. The irony of it all. Help the homeless, help ‘them'. Only now it's ‘help the homeless', help me.

Life here is bewildering for the novice. It began with form filling - all a complete blur to me since I was still in a state of shock. For all I know, I have bequeathed all my worldly goods, my liver, kidneys and my soul to the Devil.  A whirlwind tour. Tell me, does anyone remember where the kitchen is an hour later? And does it occur to anyone suddenly finding themselves homeless to pack a toilet roll just in case. One only finds out the hard way!

And why do I always get the door that has to be coaxed, cajoled, and battered into submission? Oh, the frustration of fighting with the lock under the ever-watchful eye of the 24 hr CCTV camera. Who exactly is watching me? I know it's for my protection but it is unnerving to know that Big Brother is following me around... scoffing at my attempts at lock picking (maybe I should ask one of the other ‘inmates', one of them might have ‘specialist knowledge'). And, "Don't look now, she's off to the bathroom again" .Paranoid? Me?  Yes!

Having finally bluffed my way into the room, what next? There is a cup, plate, bowl, spoon and fork. No knife. I presume this is to protect my safety, too. Wrong. Everyone else has one. Mine must have ‘walked out' with the last inmate. Oh well, there is a decent heater, a wardrobe (open it at your peril for fear of waking the whole street. Anyone got a can of WD40?), a bedside drawer (who or what died in there, I dread to think), a table which collapses the moment I touch it. Must ask a passing two-year old how to put it back together, I'm blowed if I can work it out. So much for an Oxford education. Make mental note to alert the dons about this gap in the curriculum.

Still, I have warmth, shelter and a brand new duvet on the bed. I fall asleep.

It is three days before I see another ‘inmate'. Have they been tucked away in a tomb too? A muffled hello as we pass each other along the corridor. What are they in for I wonder? Hang on, this is not a prison, I remind myself. Don't get sucked into the downward spiral. This is just temporary. You'll find a place to call your own. Just be patient. Think positive and make things happen.

 

Sunday morning. Easter Day. Church. A man standing outside in the rain under an umbrella, welcoming one and all with such a broad smile that I have to smile back. I sneak into the far pew at the back and tuck myself into the corner. I am afraid that the ‘smell' of the shelter, the smell that wafts uninvited up my nostrils every morning, clings to my clothes, my hair and I don't want people to know. As the service draws to a close, I am overwhelmed by grief and struggle not to cry.

 

The week goes by with more forms to be completed and handed in. The Housing Office minion gives me the ‘what have you stepped in?' look, whilst the Housing Benefits lady takes my forms and transfers the information onto three more forms, photocopies two more pages and asks me to bring in more forms from the DWP. I reckon that if I gathered all the forms together, pulped them and dried them into bricks I could have built my own house by now.

 

Excitement - a letter from the Housing Office offering me a flat. Off I trundle to collect the keys and have a look around. Whoosh! Down to earth with an almighty thud.

My suspicions were aroused the moment I saw the front door. Brand new, unvarnished and the flat opposite has a new door, too. What happened to the old doors? There are no signs of any other improvements in the block. The flat is in a sorry state, more than a lick of paint needed here. Why are so many other flats empty, particularly the other ground floor flats? It's so depressing and I don't feel safe but beggars can't be choosers... can they?

 

Yes, according to local Housing Office. "Not feeling safe is reasonable grounds for refusal" (‘the look' says it all; they know their patch). Not so, according to the referring Housing Office twenty-four hours later and what's more, I won't be offered another property. Pardon me, I'm confused. I am new to all this and don't have a copy of the rule book; in fact, I am not even sure what game we are playing. Naively, I ask who can one call upon for practical and emotional support, who is our advocate? Nobody, apparently.

 

It seems to me, as one new to this topsy-turvy world of homelessness that there are things that can be done to improve life around here but we need help and, perhaps more importantly, we need to know that people care.

 

I had never been to this town before Good Friday, I had never been homeless before. Suddenly, I didn't know where to begin. I didn't even remember where the kitchen was but I was expected to know how the Housing system works. I am fortunate in that I have certain life skills:  I can use the public library to get pieces of information but nothing about the idiosyncrasies of the Housing Office; it would be easier to follow the plans for a nuclear power plant than understand the Housing Office. I can go to Tesco and buy a roll of toilet paper, washing powder, toiletries, and coat hangers but what I cannot buy is a welcome: a leaflet telling me about the place in which I find myself and what is going on in the town, a friendly face popping in to see if I'm ok.

 

Maybe the churches and other community groups could think about those in need on their doorstep. Yes, we have problems, challenges and stories to tell but we are fellow human beings and as such deserve your care. Who knows, we might even be able to help you in return.  How about meeting us and asking what you can do to help, how you can show us that you care? All it takes is a little of your time and thought. Maybe you could begin by making up welcome packs with a map of the town, a toilet roll, toiletries, teabags, washing powder, maybe even a phone card. Think about it. After all, one day it might be you sitting here asking for help.

 

Thank you for caring.