Rude Awakenings from Sleeping Rough

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This is a story that the charities don't want you to read. This is the fate that can befall any of us that you don't want to acknowledge. For years you have passed them on the streets, as much a part of your routine as your morning shower, your half-hearted scan of the world's news - fake or otherwise - and the barista who artistically crafts the �cappuccino with soya milk, three drops of vanilla, and a flutter of chocolate sprinkles that has to be made just right or it throws your day off in ways that nobody else understands. You see them as often as you see your own family. The disenfranchised. The rough sleepers. The homeless. Camped out and befouling the sidewalks and alleyways of your daily commute, their worldly possessions, such as they are, spread around them -as dirty and worn out as the sleepers themselves, but as valuable to them as your �0 brogues are to you. Occasionally you get the urge to throw some loose change at them as a gesture of magnanimous humanity, but when push comes to shove you would rather tip the honest, hard-working barista who ensures your day gets off to a proper start. Better to support the successful rather than throw good money after bad trying to keep the great unwashed afloat. You have conditioned yourself to look through them - allowing your eyes to pass over them without actually seeing them. A defeated acceptance of lives gone wrong, uncomfortable reminders of what can happen when the best laid plans of mice and men go horribly awry. "Thank god I'm not like them, " you think, sipping your �cup of liquid gold. "I could never let that happen to me." Until suddenly - inexplicably - it does. And you discover the life you have built was nothing more than a house of cards that crashed down around you with frightening ease. A spate of bad luck, a poor decision or two, and the ubiquitous 'circumstances beyond your control' conspire to create a perfect storm of events that leaves you cast away on the streets feeling dazed, disjointed, and damned. This is Peter C. Mitchell's story. But it could be your story. Not to mention the thousands of others, past and present, that have found themselves broken behind closed charity doors. Theirs are the stories that need to be heard. To be read.