christmas spirits

I was at a loss. Most years I am, to be honest.

There’s something uncompromisingly conventional about what is expected of us at Christmas and, being single and not on good terms with either parent, I am just one of those awkward people who don’t quite fit.

But this year was different. I decided to volunteer for Crisis at Christmas, a charity that, over the Christmas period, opens temporary shelters across London for the single homeless. It was a fitting choice. Kicked out at 17, I was a member of the hidden homeless whilst studying my A-levels many years ago. From makeshift beds and spare rooms all over the county of Buckinghamshire, I lived an uncertain and miserable existence - but I was one of the lucky ones.

So, that is how I found myself, in the early hours of Christmas morning, searching for this year's makeshift dependency centre nestled underneath the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station. The only real giveaway to its existence (in a disused office space) was a couple of hi-vi vests standing by a gate. Warm smiles greeted me through the darkness as I was the second member of the relief shift to arrive. These volunteers had worked all night - and they were clearly ready to call it a day.

Nearer the entrance, I found a few more glassy-eyed volunteers keeping awake in the the cool, crisp air. Behind them, a handful of guests, on a festive all-nighter, busied themselves with cans and fags and staggered about like slow-moving zombies. A kindly volunteer welcomed me aboard and offered to show me around. At reception, I was greeted warmly again. What struck me straight away, apart from the smell, the modest twinkling fairy lights and the odd bag of empty tinnys, was the incredible goodwill and blunt graciousness from volunteers and guests alike. I was out of my comfort zone but that seemed okay.

The eight-hour shifts get split into two-hour segments with duties throughout the centre rotated as fairly as possible. And there are so many duties to choose from: the gate, the information point, the café, the kitchen, keeping an eye on the sleeping area, fire-duty, toilets duty, arts and crafts to assisting in IT or hair-dressing. You’re never asked to do anything you feel uncomfortable with and you feel looked after by the more experienced shift managers, everyday heroes who have many years of volunteering under their belts.

The first and most important duty I was assigned (along with half of my Christmas Day-dodging shift) was to ‘float’ around. After the initial briefing, I head onto the floor. 'Floating' means wandering about and talking to the now-rising guests. The smell of cooked bacon over-rides everything as they sit down in clusters in the canteen. I feel nervous. I don’t find it easy to talk to random strangers at the best of times but homeless addicts? What to say? ‘Do you come here often?’ doesn’t seem like a good idea.

I look around and see an influx of volunteers standing around the room, self-conscious and equally panicked. It reminds me of the school disco during a slow number.

Then I meet T. A regular at the dependency centre, an alcoholic with an eleven year habit, a casual taste for crack and a surprising passion for the beauty of maths. He carries a book on algebra in his shabby coat pocket. We talk at length about the punkier end of physics. I want to understand string theory. He wants to get a degree.

Before long, I’m donning rubber gloves (loo duty) and giving as good as I get with the more outgoing guests. T seeks me out to show me his new haircut. He’s clearly very pleased but plays it down “yeah, its quite useful, actually”. Back in the canteen and one marriage proposal down, I cheer on the afternoon’s karaoke and help out in the arts department. Watching over those who just need to sleep brings unexpected satisfaction and there are moments, little moments, littered though the day that touch my heart deeply.

However, there was one guest I'm ashamed to admit to giving a wide berth. She looked like the kind of person who spends all day picking fights from park benches. Her concave frame emanated latent aggression and I didn't want to catch her eye. As it turned out, she loved karaoke and spent most of the day with a microphone in her hand. Eventually, inbetween power ballads, she walked towards me to make a call to a fellow rough-sleeper. Her long-mousey hair sticking like glue to her skull, pinched face and hunched shoulders, she was concentrating hard on getting her point across.

“…this place is great! You gotta come! They’ve got free food! And beds! And karaoke! And..." she leaned against the wall to steady herself, "It’s like heaven! I’m having my hair and nails done later!”

The slurring couldn’t hide the exclamation marks or her girlish enthusiasm. It was heaven.

Later, I was silently willing her to win the bingo - she never wins anything, she complained - but she didn't so she gave the cheerful bingo caller some good-natured grief instead. We all laughed and enjoyed the ride.

My shift was over almost as soon as it had begun. I was tired and glad to be going home – and grateful I had a home to go to. It was dark again, the late-shift had arrived as fresh-faced and nervous as I was. In the entertainment area, the disco was kicking off. The beer, wine and Christmas spirit in full flow.

As our shift made their way out of the building, I saw her again. She was sitting outside, can in hand, watching us leave “thank you” I heard her say to our parting backs. This time, I caught her eye: “Really, thank you for spending time wi’ us" I waved and smiled back. Too choked to say anything else.