Homelessness in a Global Historical Context
One afternoon in late summer of 2010 I was walking home from the shops when I bumped into Punk Paul. ‘Hungry?’ He joked in his thick West Yorkshire accent, gesturing to my bags full of bread, salad, sausages, and wine. ‘I’m having a BBQ at my flat with some friends. Do you want to come?’ Paul eagerly took a few bags from me and we began to the short walk up the hill to where I lived in Bristol. By then I had known him for almost two and a half years. We trusted one another. As we entered the flat, we were first greeted by my dogs, Joey and Pea. Both dogs wagged cheerfully before diving nose first into the bags that we were carrying. ‘Get out of there!’ Paul said gently to the dogs. They knew him from fieldwork. As I started to unpack the shopping, Paul sat cross-legged on the floor, stroking the dogs so that they settled down beside him. ‘Are you any good at making burgers?’ I asked Paul, slapping beef mince and onions onto the kitchen worktop. ‘Can I put some music on? I can’t work wi’out music,’ he said. I tossed him my phone. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do wi’ that?’ ‘It has music on it!’ I laughed, taking back the phone and flicking to the music library. I gave it to Paul so that he could choose what we listened to and we spent the next hour or so chopping vegetables, dressing leaves and making burgers to Nobody’s Heroes by Stiff Little Fingers. Friends arrived, we barbecued, and, as it got later, one friend put her little girl to sleep in my bed. Paul came to the door of the bedroom where I was reading the little girl a story. ‘Marmite!’ I heard him say my name in a loud whisper. ‘Thanks for your hospitality mate but I’ve got to get going now.’ I went to the door. ‘Everything OK, Paul?’