Rough luck

I’M wearing all the winter woollies I can muster, but despite the extra layers I’m cold within minutes. Stockton High Street is vast, already largely deserted except for an unwelcome chill wind. My breath hangs frosty in the air and I feel like I’m in some post-apocalyptic film, waiting for the bad guys to creep out of the shadows.

The situation quickly becomes monotonous.

It’s not like you can pop into a pub for a drink and a quick warm.

I try to find a safe spot, somewhere not so exposed.

Homeless people often shelter in bins or on shop roofs, which can often have warm spots. More importantly, they are less vulnerable.

I choose the doorway of a bank. It’s set back from the street, with stairs going up to it. It’s less exposed than other options, but it’s also covered in dubious stains and smells like a toilet.

The streets are intimidating. I simultaneously feel invisible and in danger. Passers-by look through me, not at me. Nobody asks why I’m there, why I’m alone and sitting in a doorway on a cold December evening.

A group of teenagers gather close by and I suddenly feel exposed and hyper-alert, aware of my new found vulnerability as a young woman alone on the streets.

The thought that there’s very little I could do if threatened begins to haunt me. Thankfully, they don’t approach, but my heart continues to pound for ages afterwards.

Homeless people face a higher risk of being assaulted than almost any other social group.

Later, I speak to John, a local man who has been homeless for 22 years. He has been attacked numerous times.

“I don’t like to ask anyone for anything, so I play my guitar. One time, a group of lads asked me to play them a song. I played it and the next thing I knew, one of them was attacking me, punching and kicking me as I sat there.”

He goes on to say that, without his guitar, he wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want to rely on begging and refuses to turn to crime: “Without your morals, what do you have?” he asks.

John is currently waiting for his guitar to be repaired. He landed on it when he collapsed on the street with pneumonia.

“I was lying there, semi-conscious. I couldn’t move, but I could see people just walking past me. I don’t know how long I was there, but a woman out jogging eventually called an ambulance and wrapped me up. She saved my life.”

JOHN became homeless after losing his job. A family breakdown – the most common reason given for homelessness – saw him commuting to work from a tent for three months.“I couldn’t keep on top of my hygiene and it was a food factory. They had to let me go.”

Speaking to him, I realise how easy it is to slip through the cracks – how quickly you can find yourself without a permanent home. It chills me more than the wintry weather.

He tells me that the area’s homeless people often rely on food they find in bins and says he despairs of the amount thrown away by nightclub revellers.

I later chat to a worker standing outside a pizza shop, who tells me he defies his boss to give food away. “When I came to England, I was on the streets myself. It’s difficult. We are all people and we need to help each other,” he says.

It is the community’s Good Samaritans that help to break up the bleak picture. Later, I find myself needing to use the toilet, something I hadn’t planned for.

A local church, the Stockton Baptist Tabernacle, lets me use their facilities. Volunteers make me tea and let me warm up. One tells me that they are always there to provide a friendly ear to anyone who may need it. “It’s what Jesus did, isn’t it?”

I’m also told about the work of street pastors, who walk the streets of Stockton until 3am on weekends, assisting needy people.

Despite the efforts of the well-intentioned, after a matter of hours I know with more certainty than ever that life for rough sleepers is incredibly tough and not one I can imagine is willingly chosen.

I’ve been doing it for a few hours on a rainy evening and I’m cold, wet and bored.

That people turn to substance abuse no longer surprises me. It’s a lonely, perilous existence and not one I would wish on my worst enemy.

It is December. Most people are preparing for Christmas, surrounded by their families and friends in warm houses. I asked John if he celebrates at all. “Christmas? What’s that all about? Everyone is just chasing money and things. They’re blind. Paper and metal mean more than people, these days.”

To support local homeless charity Nightstop Teesside, text BEDS41 £... to 70070.

• Follow what happened next to Jo – tomorrow