Mr Hopgood died last night...
Mr Hopgood died last night. Mr Hopgood who shuffled around Poplar with his outlandishly large suitcase. Mr Hopgood who shuffled around with his rain damaged hat, his trousers too large, his shoes too tight, his encrusted coat. Mr Hopgood that had the longest fingernails I’d ever seen. Mr Hopgood who no-one wanted.
Mr Hopgood had a story. They say a brilliant mind that for some unknown catalyst went over the edge. He spent most of his adult life in hostels refusing to bath or on the streets. He came to us in the winter frozen. He came to sleep and to eat. There he would find warmth and tolerance among the mothers and their children. Then at 1:30pm after a lunch off he would shuffle. It broke our hearts. We couldn’t get him into any hostels. Social services didn’t want to know. Because he smelt because he wouldn’t engage with resettlement programmes, because he would always represent a failure on their bureaucratic tick-lists.
Well we fought. We fought social services; we fought our local street rescue team; we fought a local hostel; we fought our own organisation’s social services. It got bloody! After 8 weeks of this old man sleeping on the streets we got him in a local hostel. I’ll not forget the look on his face when he was accepted and felt safe again.
Mr Hopgood died last night. Mr Hopgood who no-one wanted
Mr Hopgood had a story. They say a brilliant mind that for some unknown catalyst went over the edge. He spent most of his adult life in hostels refusing to bath or on the streets. He came to us in the winter frozen. He came to sleep and to eat. There he would find warmth and tolerance among the mothers and their children. Then at 1:30pm after a lunch off he would shuffle. It broke our hearts. We couldn’t get him into any hostels. Social services didn’t want to know. Because he smelt because he wouldn’t engage with resettlement programmes, because he would always represent a failure on their bureaucratic tick-lists.
Well we fought. We fought social services; we fought our local street rescue team; we fought a local hostel; we fought our own organisation’s social services. It got bloody! After 8 weeks of this old man sleeping on the streets we got him in a local hostel. I’ll not forget the look on his face when he was accepted and felt safe again.
Mr Hopgood died last night. Mr Hopgood who no-one wanted
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