Looking for Andrew (Journal 12)
By Canonette
- 402 reads
It's been a few weeks since Andrew got the first phone call from the hostel and I'm worried that they're stalling. At first he got a call out of the blue, saying that he was at the top of the list for a place at the hostel, as he's a diabetic. "Diabetics shouldn't be on the streets, the woman said to me, because they don't have a fridge to store their insulin." Too right, I replied. I've given up asking him about his diabetes, as it's completely out of control and he has evaded the last four doctors appointments I've made for him. He told me that his Dad used to nag him to take his insulin when he was alive, but I'm not his mum and I don't enjoy being cast in the role of harridan.
After the initial contact from the homeless charity, Andrew went for an interview, which seemed to go quite well. They said they needed a gardener and Andrew studied horticulture at college for three years and so offered to help them out. They told him that all that was needed were the police checks, which usually take two to three days... three weeks later and the police checks came back negative to arson or violent offences, but still no place at the hostel.
"They said head office have to come and check the room for health and safety." Andrew tells me. I find this unbelievable - how safe do they think it is to sleep in a shop doorway? This is how things seem to be in this country now: benefits claims, applications and requests for help if you're homeless seem to progress at a snail's pace.
The result of being strung along by the homeless charity, is that Andrew's mood fluctuates wildly; sometimes he's quite optimistic and making plans and other times he's despondent. I can't help but wonder if Nina, the outreach worker has stuck her oar in. She does seem to hate Andrew - judging by her rant to me down the phone, she takes his personal failings very personally. Whatever the reason is - it seems quite cruel to treat a homeless person in this way.
Today Andrew seems quite buoyant. As I approach his spot outside the charity shop, he's accepting a bottle of Fanta and a bacon and cheese turnover from a middle-aged man. You won't need this then, I say, handing him an identical bottle of Fanta Fruit Twist. Andrew smiles and stuffs it into his rucksack. I don't suppose you'll want a bacon and cheese thing? I ask, thinking one would be enough for anyone's constitution, but apparently Andrew eats between six and eight of them a day.
"I need a pillow," he says to me, giving me puppy dog eyes. "My arse is really hurting." Funnily enough, I don't happen to have a cushion on me, I reply. I'm not sure whether to be flattered that he thinks I can produce sundry household items from thin air. Although I have to admit, that I'm extremely good at finding the things he needs for free or next to nothing.
I go to the cafe and order a burger for him, while he looks in the charity shop for a suitable throne.
"Nah, they don't have nothing - cheapest one's three quid," he says and then thanks me for the bottle of strawberry Yazoo, as he pulls up a chair next to me.
I ring the hostel while Andrew tucks into his quarter pounder. "He's next on the list," the lady on the other end of the phone tells me. "When someone moves out, the room has to be checked and we're waiting for paperwork." I thank her for her help and say I hope that Andrew will be hearing from them soon.
"That's not right - I can't be top of the list," Andrew says. "My mate's in there and he said a new person moved in this weekend." It turns out that Andrew knows three people in the hostel and he can't wait to move in and challenge them to a game of pool.
We both shrug. Who knows?
We chat about this and that - his brother's job, his nephews, a new baby on the way, his mate's car needing a new clutch... being attacked by police dogs when his mate had a car crash on the A21. Was it stolen? I ask. I've been in numerous car crashes, but have never been set upon by a police dog afterwards. "No, but my mate said to run, because he doesn't have a driving license". So that explains it - don't run away from a car crash, because it tends to arouse suspicion.
I pop back to work to get some ski socks for Andrew, as he says his feet are getting cold at night. How many pairs do you want? I ask. I have about thirty. He says that ten is the maximum number he would ever require and so I settle on half a dozen from the collection of jumble beneath my desk. As luck would have it, I also find an unwanted a cushion under there - a supplier's sample that looks like the sort of thing a granny would buy. Andrew is delighted. "It's like sitting on an arm chair - thank you, darling," he says. He settles down for another afternoon spent sitting on the pavement and I walk back to my office.
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Comments
aha, so you can magic up
aha, so you can magic up cushions. wish I could spell abracadabra, Well done, things moving the right direction, I think.
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Love that you've written more
Love that you've written more, I am so hoping this time things will work out for Andrew, he deserves a break. I am pulling for him to get that room soon and so glad you are both still in touch.
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The waiting with no
The waiting with no believable explanation must be so difficult for him (and you!)
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I do hope Andrew manages to
I do hope Andrew manages to get into the hostel before Winter sets in, it would be tragic to discover with all his other problems that he had to face the real cold weather too.
Jenny.
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