Well, what a day I've had.
As you know I've been a bit of a woman on a mission the past few days trying to get the local homeless lady of Littleborough into some emergency accommodation.
First and foremost, it is no easy feat trying to find emergency accommodation in this borough that isn't already bursting at the seams - if by chance of a miracle you do actually get through to the right person; having run the gauntlet of every phone line in Greater Manchester, you will undoubtedly reach the starting gate : Whats the persons name you are referring, whats their date of birth, whats their last known address, how do we contact them.
Well that is an awful lot of questions to be asking someone who a) is naturally guarded about their information b) not always a full shilling by way of alcohol or drugs c) even if you do get the information you need, chances of it being accurate are pretty slim.
I asked Becky yesterday what her full name was, her birthday, it took her a long time to decipher the different months and years, but we got there.
So, today, armed with this information, I made more phone calls to try and get a plan together - lo and behold a great place in Rochdale called Petrus - a project that does a host of great things across Rochdale, including a day centre where people can pop in, grab something to eat, have a shower, do some laundry, get some clean clothes and toiletries and get some viable help from the incredibly compassionate and pro-active staff working there.
I walked this morning for 2 hours in the rain, through Littleborough, Hurstead and Dearnley trying to find this woman. When I did eventually find her, she was soaked to the bone and beyond drunk.
Trousers falling down, her modesty protected by another pair of jeans underneath the ones round her ankles.
I pulled them up and put her on a bus.
Off we went, the strangest looking pair of woman on public transport. She was away with the fairies for the entire journey, chatting away to herself, swearing and laughing. The strangest state of drunk I've ever seen - especially before 12 o'clock.
When I eventually got Becky to Petrus, she was agitated and reluctant to engage. I could see the anger and frustration and fear bubbling inside her. She stormed out and left me to talk to the lovely ladies who worked there.
I thought she had done a runner. A good 40 minutes passed and as I made my way to leave, she shouted me from across the road. I calmed her down and asked her to come inside and get warm. She agreed. Positive progress.
She was handed a clean towel and a bag of mini toiletries, shampoo, shower gel, a new toothbrush, hairbrush, everything you could possibly need.
Such dignity.
What an incredible thing these people are doing, providing hot showers. laundry facilities, hot meals, it is just truly amazing.
Whilst she was showering, I went into a room filled with bin bags of clothes, piles stacked high to the ceiling, clothes rails buckling under the weight of the donated winter coats and heavy wool jumpers. A worker and I ploughed through the clothes and found ideal rainy Rochdale attire - a lovely pair of Per Una jeans, it made me laugh. They were the kind of jeans my own mother would have picked out for me a decade ago, cute, denim, tight, size 10, lovely.
An oversized tshirt and a thermal and cosy fleece, a clean pair of bridget jones knicker and some thermal socks.
All of this, free.
For any man or woman who should walk into the Petrus Hub on a weekday, they can walk out again, most likely into organised accommodation thanks to the hard work of the people there, in clean, warm, clothes, warm bellies and clean hands, hair and feet.
And whats not to love about that?
- Let me tell you, after walking around in the rain for hours, I was half tempted to jump on the bandwagon myself; alas, I'm in a incredibly humbled position where I can go home and do just that.
I knock on the shower door and Becky opens it, in all her naked glory, I am a little shocked at the sight of a naked woman, especially this naked woman. I have seen her in layers of clothes up until now so to be greeted with her in a natural state leaves me a little taken aback.
It makes me realise how indoctrinated she must be into our prison system. Knock, open, naked, dressed, leave.
She brushes her hair, hands and fingernails the cleanest I've seen them since we met. She looks refreshed, like a little weight has lifted from her shoulders. Nestled in warm clothes, she moves a little easier.
She asks me to pop back to the shower room to grab her hair bobble - I do, but as I find out later, this was a rookie error, as I leave my hoodie unattended with money in the pocket.
A quick lesson in what not to do, but my own eagerness to help teaches me how to do things differently next time.
I can hear you all scoff, take a little breath and wonder what on earth I'm doing.
The explosion comes, her agitation reaches fever pitch, surrounded by strangers, in a place I can tell she doesn't like, her anger surfaces like a volcano.
A rage. Like I've not seen in her before, but read about. A lot.
People writing on social forums and gossiping loudly, that shes a crazy, angry lunatic.
And I see it for myself now.
Shes flipped.
Screaming, shouting, swearing, threatening, aggressive, abusive, violent.
I'm not scared, I'm upset.
I'm frustrated.
I help the womans hand yesterday as she cried at a bus stop and now she wants to throttle me.
She tells me she will kill me if she sees me again and a barrage of other threats.
I'm saddened. Truly. To see her so consumed with rage when just moments before she was gentle and enthralled in brushing her hair.
So, I'm £10 down from my hoodie pocket, a bus fare, a bag of chips and my day off.
Will I do it all again?
Absolutely.
There is no doubt that this woman is consumed with demons. That she needs some serious mental health intervention, absolute abstinence and a bloody good rehab program.
What she really needs is for people not to give up.
If I walk away now, I will be another short lived attempt at genuine help.
I won't do that.
I certainly won't leave myself in such a vunerable position with a woman who clearly needs some professional support, but that doesn't mean I won't stop and talk to her tomorrow and the day after that, and work to get her the help she needs.
It's the strangest way to spend my day off, no doubt about that, and whilst some will think it's case and point and that you just can't help some people - I still don't believe that.
To top off my delightful drama, the £10 she pinched, I couldn't get home from Rochdale and ended up hopping on the wrong train home.
With a few quid in my pocket I hopped on the first train to Leeds, assuming it was the right one, ended up in Todmorden, having the explain this long winded tail to a less than impressed train conductor - who let me on the train to come home - thankfully.
Which in itself would have been arduous enough - oh no, not today - today there were ticket inspectors at Littleborough - who seemed less amused by my sorry tale!
Hey ho, live and learn and have another go tomorrow!
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