Lord Griffiths of Burry Port (Lab)

And so to the business of the day. I start with the most reverend Primate again. He says somewhere that his beginning—the opening chapter of his life—was messy, and I can say that mine was messy, too. For him, he was three; for me, I was five and a half when everything broke down and darkness descended upon us. I still have the letter from my father’s solicitor to my mother, indicating that she was to take her two boys out of his client’s home within a week—so, my mother, with two little boys, was on the street. For days we were on the street, and a kind neighbour in the little two-up, two-down houses would put us up, but the pressure on their space was great. In the end, my grandparents, who had two rooms as caretakers in a factory, decided they could live in one room so that we could live in the other. I grew up in one room in a brickyard. That was at five or six. What can I say about homelessness? I have decided I want to say a word about the homeless—let others talk about construction, targets and all of that. What can I remember? I will tell you what I remember. I remember my mother’s face, tear-struck. I remember her despair. I smelled her panic. Before the welfare state, how was she going to put food on the table? How could she cope with life and its demands? How would her boys have a chance to wear shoes and underwear? I remember homelessness, and I have refused to call it homelessness ever since; I call it the plight of homeless people, in order to remind ourselves that homelessness is about people, their needs must be paramount, and we must find ways of forging policies that hold them and their well-being in mind. Fast forward 40 years and I have inherited a programme of social work that was begun by Donald Soper, of beloved memory. One of his institutions was a homelessness centre, open 365 days in the year, a brilliant piece of work. The work I did in those few years enabled me to become friends to homeless people. One of them, called Tom, would take me around with him. He spoke Hungarian. He had a PhD. His life had fallen apart. He had resorted to alcohol. All of them have stories. Tom took me to where the IMAX cinema is now, on the Waterloo roundabout—I am sure the noble Lord, Lord Bird, knows what I am talking about—where the homeless would gather, often with a fire. They would send scouts from among their own community to the railway stations to see if any children were running away from home and before predators got hold of them. There was an advice centre in the Royal Festival Hall that helped people who were newly homeless to cope. One night—just one—I spent a night in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Tom told me how to wrap my legs and my lower body in newspaper. He told me where to find the best cardboard, outside McDonald’s: there was not so much grease in it, and therefore the rodents would not bother me in the night. In the middle of the night, we were woken up by a soup kitchen that wanted to feed us with sustainable food. I have to say that, when the rain started at 3 am, I was a coward and went home, but I have never forgotten the comradeship of the people in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the jokes and the banter. Homelessness is about people. This debate is about finding ways to solve the needs of people. If we do not do that, then all the statistics, trends, budgets and hopes are for nothing. I am so glad that I am being followed by the noble Lord, Lord Bird, who is a more authentic voice than I on these matters.