The hat stays on because it’s warm, not because it’s pretty. I found it in a charity shop for £2.50, and it’s been with me through enough winters that it feels like part of me now. People sometimes smile when they see it, like it’s a bit of a joke, but I don’t mind. It’s mine.
You stop me in the street and tell me about your project — photographs of people who’ve been homeless, and people who haven’t, to see if anyone can tell the difference. I grin and say, “I haven’t, but I know a few who have.”
That’s where the poetry comes in. I’m part of a group that works with people who’ve experienced homelessness — helping them turn their stories into words. We meet in a little community room once a week, mugs of tea in hand, and the air gets thick with honesty. Some poems are raw, full of the things they’ve never told anyone. Others are funny, sharp, full of mischief. I’ve seen people come in with their shoulders hunched and leave standing taller, just because someone listened.
I suppose that’s why I say yes to the photo. Because homelessness isn’t always about sleeping on the pavement — sometimes it’s about not feeling like you belong anywhere. Poetry can give you that place, even for a couple of hours.
So, yes, the hat stays on. It’s more than wool and stitches. It’s a conversation starter. A bit of armour against the cold. And sometimes, it’s the thing that makes someone ask me a question — the kind of question that leads to a story worth telling.
