Bustling bodies push past me as I struggle to make my way down O Connell street, with two heavy bags. I've exhausted the phrase (or should I say word?) 'sorry'. It is as if I am apologizing for my existence...I may as well say 'sorry for being alive...I know it's a nuisance to have to look at me hobbling down the biggest street in Ireland with two heavy bags, messy hair, and shabby clothes'. Either way, being homeless brings with it the constraint of being ten times more humble than the lay person. Hardening your accent and wearing ratty clothes is almost a right of passage to not getting extensively verbally abused. This is a lesson I learnt the hard way, unfortunately. 'Sorry' 'Sorry' Sorry'. My bags are heavy. I am worsening my already sore back, and I am going no where. Somewhere to sit would be nice. O Connell street becomes an eternal roadway. I wade through the human traffic and glaring eyes. People sense my despair. I get the odd half smile, but I mainly get repulsed gestures of indignation. Women clutching on to their handbags for dear life while talking on the phone, kids asking me why I have so many bags, and young working men scrutinizing my tatty outfit, as if to say 'someone's never gonna get laid'. I'm finally here...the casino. The bouncer knows me well, he's eastern European, they all are. What is it with eastern Europeans working as casino bouncers? I'll never know. 'Hoody' he grumbles as he mimes pulling down a hood. I do as I am told and drudge in to the casino. I look around in search for melancholy Mauritian faces. Strangely, Mauritians are the only minority of homeless people who don't do drugs. They are enthroned with incredible resilience. There's Mohammed...'heya' I mutter as I take a seat beside him, 'hillo' he says accompanied with a slight head bobble. We prater on for a few minutes before realizing the language and cultural barrier is too significant. The only thing we have in common is our homelessness and our sobriety. Another eastern European bouncer does his rounds, ensuring everyone is gambling away all their money. He reaches us and nods, we are off the hook.
Half ten is crunch hour, the phones come out and the dialing begins. 1800707707. Unless you ring at 10.30pm on the dot you'll be sleeping on the streets, it is as simple as that. The homeless system works on a first come first served basis. While you are waiting for somewhere to stay full time, you pace the streets of Dublin until half ten. At half ten the world stands still and all that matters is getting a bed. I dial, and redial until I get through...and even then, I'm number 47 in line. I am being deafened by a very loud and very patronizing tune...I contemplate whether it is a piano or some kind of synth machine? Either way, it needs to be changed. I am number three; and half the casino know I am homeless at this stage, because the tune is blaring. A very intimidating Dub roars 'FREEPHONE' down the phone. I bashfully try to initiate a conversation...but he is having none of it...'DATE OF BIRTH' he booms. I am half deaf at this stage. I give my date of birth, and he trawls through the list of vacant beds. The pause goes on forever as I am terrified of both my expendabilty and the man on the other end. He opens with a 'right' and then transmits the good news; 'we have a bed'.
The next half an hour consists of me running to wherever I am placed.
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