Hobo high life

Last night, I got off the train from Derby with my laptop bag crammed with biscuits, tea and a small towel courtesy of the hotel, a plastic bag of artwork from the conference, and a handbag overflowing with electrical cables.

Met a friend in seedy Lewisham, who had taken my sleeping bag from the office so I could claim it for something to sleep in tonight. We went to a bar, vinyl covered booth seats bursting with foam, and a thick fug of smoke under the ceiling. The bar was spartan, furnished and decorated in the theme of "fire sales". My friend said the bar took him to memories of lost house keys and having nowhere else to go.

I slept in my bag on a squeaky spring bed. I am just an inch short of being able to touch wall to wall with my arm outstretched.

In the morning, I turned a soluble vitamin into an orange juice and my biscuits from the hotel were saved for a morning snack, thanks to a hearty conference lunch that doubled as dinner. I'm not sure what the other staff thought about the amount I ate. Next time I'm bringing a plastic container...!

I dry with my small stolen towel, and dress in clothing smelling of last night's smoke.

Four trains pass before one had room for any passengers at my stop. One lady was in outrage there was a seven minute gap between trains. She shouted at a police officer and left the platform in tears. One or two squashed on to a carriage, riding with their suit tails caught in the doors. I was just grateful for a morning newspaper to read; the only literature I have with me. I read every article, including the letters section and kept the paper to take "home" with me.

At work, I get clean clothes from my suitcase and change in the toilet.

KebMaf tells me it's my heart that makes it a home, and that I'm not alone...

I try to remind myself that.