That sad f igure sleeping rough? It could have been my friend
HOMELESSNESS is with us all year round, but at Christmas the contrast between those of us laden with bags of gifts to carry into our warm and comfortable homes and those who spend their days and nights huddled into cardboard nests on the street is more vivid than ever.
The festive decorations around town and carousing groups of party- goers make the presence of this growing, disenfranchised segment of our society even more uncomfortable and jarring.
The homeless are often thought of as anonymous tribe of outliers but that is not the case. They are ordinary people, only a couple of steps away from any of us. I know this to be true because in my immediate circle there are several who, without the help of others close to them, might well have joined those spending freezing December curled up in shop doorways.
All are exceptional characters who led interesting, fulfilling lives until, for any number of reasons – bad decisions, financial incompetence, divorce, unemployment, mental health problems – they found their lives falling apart in a disastrous spiral. In my experience, there is never an exact tipping point you can identify when someone stopped being able to function in society.
As the lives of those I know grew more chaotic, they never wanted to show how desperate they had become. They would grasp at mirages that everyone else could see for what they were but which these folk were convinced would solve their problems.
They refused to do basic self-help, believing others were causing their problems, never themselves. Tragically, they often alienated those most able to help them. Luckily, the people I know had friends and family to rally with accommodation, loans, psychological support and, more importantly, an endless supply of patience. But for many, this kind of safety net is simply not there. Sometimes it never was. Sometimes, in the end, just too many bridges have been burned.
As I donated to Crisis at Christmas’s annual appeal, I pondered how many of its packages to buy. Five? Ten? 20? My fingers hovered briefly over one of the l ower options before I pulled myself together, realising that plumping for the more generous donation still meant spending less than I have spent on gifts for a single member of my family. I hope it will make more of a difference to someone’s life than any amount of cashmere jumpers under the tree.
No room for loved ones in my life
IT MAY be an unseasonal thought, but please can we ban the phrase ‘loved ones’ – a maudlin term only ever used by the media. Have you ever heard anyone use it in real life?
Terrifying peril of a toxic PA
THE intimate relationship between boss and PA has endless potential to turn toxic, as it has in the case of J. K. Rowling and Amanda Donaldson. Donaldson is accused by her exemployer of fraudulently running up large bills at Jo Malone and Molton Brown. But as in many of these fall-outs, it is less money that is at issue than the betrayal of trust.
I have been unbelievably lucky and had only saints working as my assistants throughout my magazine career. But had it been different, I hate to think what the damage could have been, because they knew so much about me.
Yes, they did the usual chores – made travel bookings, sent emails, organised my diary. But, more importantly, they were the first responders to many of the most difficult moments of my life; beside me at catastrophic work moments; confidantes when I was nervous or insecure; and seamlessly keeping the show on the road when I was in a state worrying about a sick child, a dying father or in floods of tears over a disintegrating marriage.
As we all know, the closer you are to someone, the more emotionally fraught things can become. Falling out with my PA would have been like losing my sister, partner and best friend rolled into one. Their overspend at Jo Malone would have paled in comparison.
Oh, the nightmare of festive tipping!
TIPPING anxiety reaches its zenith at this time of year. The questions whirl. Who do you tip? When do you do it? How much is the right amount? Is there any point in it anyway? Am I the only person who finds themselves creeping out at dawn to fix an envelope to the recycling bin, fearful that if I do it any earlier it will either get soaked in the rain or destroyed by foxes?
Does anyone else tip the postie? Middle-class squeamishness over the matter means none of us shares our tipping practices, everyone scurrying about in an embarrassed fashion, fearful we are somehow getting it wrong.
Gorgeous Jose got one thing right ...
JOSE MOURINHO was never going to be terribly popular, even aside from his brutal management style. First of all he is far too good-looking for his own good. Men are always suspicious of his type of smooth handsomeness, considering it the sign of a vain, untrustworthy lightweight. But Mourinho compounded that sin by living in a hotel.
While adored former Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson lived in a local mansion and played in the pub quiz, Mourinho has been cast as a Howard Hughes figure, holed up in his suite at The Lowry, devouring solitary takeaways.
Wise man. Who wouldn’t want to spend their working week in a luxurious hotel if they had the choice? I’ve spent several nights in those suites and would jump at the opportunity to spend more time with their 24-hour room service, irresistible minibars, enormous bathrooms, huge corner sofas and TV screens in every room.
Given Jose’s wife wanted to remain in London, why would anyone in their right mind prefer to go home to a dark, empty house where you may have run out of Nespresso pods?
Where have all the good lights gone?
OUR tree is always dressed with ol d- f ashioned, col oured f ai r y lights but I fear this may be the last year I’ll manage it because these traditional decorations are almost impossible to find.
All of the new bulbs are LED strings with the harsh, ugly light of a crime scene and the hectic flashing of an ambulance. It’s not the same thing at all.