Her fingers are dirtier today, and the hair, matted into thick black blocks and oh so sad.
I have seen sadness, I have seen hopelessness, but today, in dark brown eyes, there was absolute nothingness.
Oh yes, I know what colour eyes Becky has, as you know, we had lunch yesterday.
Well, today, we had breakfast.
Amongst the stalls of the local farmers market, there she sat, in the door way I found her at yesterday.
Silent. Unassuming and not the offensive, abusive monster I've read so much about.
Funny that, two days in a row, I've met a woman who has been nothing but just that, a woman. Not the lady who flashes her tits at the middle class shoppers of the local sainsburys, or drops her knickers for a pissed up emergency wee (because of course, non of us have done that! - china town, a dark alley, 2008, thats all I'm saying)
Nope. Today, just a very grubby, very sad looking 40 something year old lady, waiting for someone to see her. Really see her.
So off I wandered, through the stares of the masses, to purchase a sausage sandwich from one of the stalls and back I went to sit with her whilst she ate.
"You look very down today Becky, no smiles like yesterday, whats wrong?"
"I've got a sore back," she tells me, welling up, still chomping away.
"Where did you sleep last night? Were you safe?"
"In the bushes,"
She goes on to tell me where she has indeed been sleeping and duly where her she has stashed her worldly possessions I saw her with yesterday and I understand why she does indeed look a lot more dirty than she did.
I ask her if she will let me help her, whether shes willing to try, if I can.
We sit at the bus stop and talk and I promise her I'll make phone calls and see what we can do.
And then something magical happens, she raises her arm and pulls me in for a hug.
Of course I don't pull away, and we have a lovely little moment, of one human consoling another human in a desperate gasp for help on a sunny Sunday afternoon somewhere in surburbia.
I wonder when the last time somebody hugged this woman. Somebody told her she was worth something. So I do. I grab her hand and look her in the eye and tell her I won't give up on her, its not an empty promise - and I am good at those, believe me.
There is something about this woman I can't shake, from the moment I read the comments and the barage of hate directed her way, I felt compelled to do something.
Why? Why this woman?
I walk through the streets of Manchester and I see lots of nameless faces, and I hand out coffee and tea here and there, and buy spontaneous sandwiches, random boxes of fruit juice, I don't do money, I don't do cigarettes and I don't do booze.
I think thats the point. We are so overwhelmed by quantity now. So many people and we have no idea how to help, where to start, what to do, and we shrink back into our daily lives feeling moderately appeased that we tried our best, we bought that hot drinks - and its great. It is, I think every little helps, truly.
But we need to do more.
So yes, this woman, This one woman.
The village is obsessed with her. Shes the blight, the plight, the face of what we can't bear to see.
The absolute hopelessness, the crime, the drugs, the violence, the dregs of society we try to push to one side.
We don't like it, we don't want it, it makes us realise what our society has truly become.
Selfish.
Blind.
Unkind.
No more.
If I can help one woman - and lets just think about that. ONE WOMAN, thats all this damn village has to deal with, ONE WOMAN, when the streets are full of despair, wrapped in second hand blankets and last years shoes, this is someone we can actually help.
This is someone who's life we could genuinely change. So why are people laughing? Why are people criticising?
"you can't help people like that,"
"she deserves it"
The best I've read is "feed an animal and it will return"
I walked to the supermarket today, and the staff were gossiping. Loudly. Laughing about the crazy woman who flashes her tits in the street.
One said to the other "If I ever end up like her, I hope somebody knocks me out,"
What a life it must be to have a minimum wage job, a roof over your head, and to work in a supermarket not steal from it.
Woe betide you my friend if fate changes and you duly end up in such a sorrow state.
I'm irritated by the irony of the "Food Bank Donations" box at the entrance to the store. It's overflowing - and there is a homeless woman 20ft away.
That is what we do. We donate. We drop a few cans in a box. We put a few pounds in a pot. We buy a cup of tea here and there.
We don't engage. We don't ask names. We don't ask why. We don't ask how.
We do enough to feel decent whilst neglecting to do the decent thing.
Tomorrow, I meet with local council people to get Becky some help.
A roof over her head by way of temporary hostel accommodation which comes with a wealth of support, from addiction services to mental health.
What she needs. Of course.
Will she engage? I hope so.
And if she doesn't, it's the sad carrosel system we have created in this country, but it won't stop me trying.
I know what invisible is.
I know what worthlessness is.
I know what judgement is.
This woman deserves compassion.
Don't we all?
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