A scarecrow in The Cafe in the Crypt ...

Whenever I'm in London, I head for Saint Martin in the Fields - as I cross over the Strand, into Trafalgar Square, I admire its severe beauty -

I pass by the happy gangs of Chinese tourists, the circling red buses, to stand under the portico - beneath my feet are smooth stone slabs - I can see Nelson's Column, the facade of the National Gallery -

Sometimes, I am diverted by impromptu street theatre - once I saw a thin young man squeeze his body through an unstrung tennis racket - I may pause by the fountains - I wonder if in some other, younger, world the tritons might leap into the icy pools, singing wild songs -

But, always, I turn from the Square, to visit the church - I go down into the Cafe in the Crypt - my dad used to take me here - later, we'd go to look at Seurat's Bathers at Asnieres - this was one of my dad's favourite paintings -

We'd sit, under the brick arches of the Crypt, planning our day out - I'd stare excitedly at my A to Z - sometimes we'd catch a glimpse of a grey scarecrow in the passage leading to the lavatories -

I never see a homeless man here now - I see, instead, elegant women with splendid cheekbones, young couples with glossy faces, courtly men in tweed jackets -

But last weekend, I saw a file of homeless men in the churchyard of Saint Giles in the Fields - they were gulping soup from out of small polystyrene cups - they were hidden away behind the railings - they spoke softly to each other - I half expected to see them led away, to some terrible place -

I saw a wretched creature outside Old Street Tube - he was hunched up, against the wall - his fingers were like blackened twigs -

I felt ashamed of myself as I passed him by, heading for Hoxton Square - soon I would be snarfing a calamari salad in the Ruby Cafe Bar, looking forward for a party - I resolved to do more than just be a vessel for shame ...