One sunny morning, as I walked through the arches that lead to my flat, I saw what I thought was a film set. There was stuff everywhere: a TV, an umbrella, a surfboard, a suitcase spilling with clothes. Where I live, film crews are a regular sight, so I assumed these were props, temporarily abandoned. Yet that evening, I walked past again and heard a voice coming from inside the pile. It gave me a fright. Tucked into the middle of it all was a small makeshift enclosure. And inside it, a man.

That was when I realised: this wasn’t a set. This was someone’s home.

I felt two things at once. A flicker of compassion, and then, much more strongly: not here, not on my doorstep. I didn’t want a homeless man outside my building. I told myself it was about safety, but as the days went on, that became harder to justify. He kept himself to himself. He wasn’t aggressive or erratic – he didn’t bother anyone. The discomfort stayed, but the logic behind why I didn’t want him there started to fall........

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