Like everything in life, there is a process, a chain of command, and each level has a role to play. You work your way up the ladder to gain greater rewards, but with that comes greater responsibility.
This is by far the hardest story I have written. As I transfer the words from my notebook to print, I relive in my mind every expression on her face with every word spoken. Reliving the pain, sleepless nights, arguments, and memories whilst she's explaining her story to me. Her words echoing around the empty room where we sat. Two chairs, a glass of water, and a small table surrounded by empty white walls and a high ceiling. There I sat with a notepad, as this woman is pouring her heart out and my heartbreaking further every time she opens her mouth.
2019 and we are only giving someone a place to lay their head in a safe, warm environment when the weather dictates. The chance of a conversation, a hot drink, and a small piece of cake to line their stomachs when the conditions become so severe. Only when it is too cold to lay on a pavement with nothing but all your belongings and a piece of cardboard from a skip.