London

Tuesday 19
Michael and I sit on the steps of the theatre at 7am.

“Did you notice I got rid of the Japanese last night?” he asks.

“Yeah, I did. How did you manage that?”

“I took my socks off.”

We sit there laughing.

My main thought though, is with the fact that I am done. Today, day number 7, I am going home, or at least to my sister's house so I can get cleaned up and sleep. I think it’s a good thing I am stopping now. My feet really hurt. My underpants are the things of experiments and the delicate skin tissue between my testicles and my thighs is very sore, I guess my greasy under-crackers have been sticking while I walk (I am so glad I am married and don’t have to worry about any potential lovers reading this). Feature continues

I have a stiff neck.

I have tummy troubles too. Dietary issues. Meaning I haven’t had a shit in four days.

Sure, I could go to the Berwick Street Market tomorrow at closing time and get free fruit. I could go to the Manna Centre and get showered, pick up a pair of fresh under garments. But really…

The two occasions I have lived homeless have been by my own choice, part of a journalistic endeavour. They have not been stress-free, rather fear-ridden. For those of you that question the morality of these projects, of my eating food from soup kitchens, food meant for the homeless, I can assure you my activities had zero effect on the survival of the homeless. My doing this without money was not out of a sense of challenge, but simply because I don’t believe a true recording of homeless life can be made any other way. If I had money in my pocket I would have eaten in Pret A Manger, instead of from their garbage bags. When the fear got really bad I would have hidden in a cinema. The truth is, I couldn’t do it with money in my pocket, I am too weak.

One defining area, during my short experience on the streets, where London differs from New York, is the level of aggression. London is plainly more aggressive. I am not talking about the homeless but the average man on the street. The Englishman, when you have the time to sit and look, is a bit of a Neanderthal. He walks around in a permanent state of alert. Part of a ‘who you looking at’ culture that doesn’t really exist anywhere else. I remember watching one man leave a McDonalds with his wife and two children. He walked stiff-limbed and tight-faced, swinging his arms and legs while surveying the area for potential enemies. A Chas ‘n' Dave song sprang to mind: Gertcha! New York is aggressive, don’t get me wrong, but the aggression has become part of the city's personality. It never really goes beyond the verbal, beyond the ‘hey asshole!’. The Gertcha Englishman will punch you in the face for little more than smirking at his shell suit.

It is with this realisation that I bid Michael farewell and go and wait on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street where my brother is coming to collect me, to take me back to my normal life. I am hoping to never find myself sleeping on the streets ever again.

'31 Days: A New York Street Diary' is now priced £8.99 from all good bookshops.