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There I stood, homeless with my Prada case
By LIZ JONES
Last updated at 9:55 AM on 28th December 2009
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The other night, I found myself homeless. It wasn't the sort of homelessness that meant I was fleeing an abusive home, or had found myself unable to cope with normal life due to drugs or drink. But I was still cold, stranded, ostracised. It was the Monday before Christmas and I'd caught the train to London for work.
Knowing I had to be in town the following day, I turned up at the fairly cheap hotel in Shepherd's Bush I always stay in for work. They know me here: they valet-park and clean my BMW and understand I require soya milk with my cornflakes.
As I handed the bellboy my Prada suitcase, the man at reception asked for a credit card. It was declined. I gave him another one. Declined. I offered him a debit card but he said his machine wouldn't take it.

Protective veneer: Liz Jones is used to being treated in a certain way because of nice clothes, expensive luggage, car and credit cards
He shuffled away and came back with the manager. 'But you know me,' I said to her. 'I always stay here.'
'I don't remember you,' she said. 'We cannot let you stay without taking the money first. Why don't you walk to a cashpoint?'
I left my suitcase hostage and walked to the cashpoint in my difficult shoes. 'The amount you can withdraw today is NIL.' Oh dear. I called my bank manager. He was kind but said I would not be able to withdraw money until the next day.
I walked back to the hotel. I'm used to being treated in a certain way because of my protective veneer of nice clothes, expensive luggage, car, credit cards, but for the first time I could feel what it's like to have nothing.
People look at you with disgust, pity, horror. Actually, not with that much pity, to be honest. 'I couldn't withdraw any money but I'm sure it will be fine in the morning,' I told the manager.
'I'm really sorry,' she said. 'But what am I going to do?' I wailed. 'You can wait in the bar until you figure out who you can call.'
So I sat in the bar but everything I had taken for granted - waving at the waiter to order a drink, phoning for a cab, looking forward to a hot bath and a warm pillow - seemed terribly far away.
Then the waitress came over and said, in a thick Polish accent: 'If you are not a guest and you are not going to order a drink, you will have to leave.'

Liz Jones: As I handed the bellboy my Prada suitcase, the man at reception asked for a credit card. It was declined
I picked up my bag, collected my case with as much dignity as I could muster and went out on to the pavement.
The wind whipped around my legs and it was suddenly very dark. I had been tossed on to life's rubbish tip. For the first time, I felt what it must be like to be homeless, to have no money, no one to turn to.
I realised that this was about the worst thing that can happen to you. Your humanity is stripped away and you become something to be moved along, stepped over, ignored.
I had reached my low spot through my own stupidity. I had spent too much money and was temporarily broke (my agent eventually turned up to bail me out).
But while the plight of the homeless has gone out of fashion in recent years, it hasn't gone away. Thousands of people still end up on the street because of mental illness, addiction, abuse or sheer bad luck.
And so, while it would be easy to condemn as condescending Prince William's experiment last week with homelessness to highlight the 40th anniversary of Centrepoint, a charity once championed by his mother, I think the fact that he was willing to sleep in an alley, shielded by wheelie bins, was incredibly brave.
Only when you are faced with the prospect of even one night on the pavement can you begin to understand what it's like to be down on your luck.
In this economic downturn, the realisation that the world is indeed a cold, unforgiving place is beginning to dawn on more and more of us. And it's a scary place to be.


Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1238565/LIZ-JONES.html#ixzz0bEKfwI9s

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