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pick out a smart, but not overtly glamorous outfit, put on some slap, do something wonderful with my hair and then head on out.
    I’ve never been inside a soup kitchen before – I don’t even know if that’s the correct term any more. They’re probablycalled Eating Venues for the Under-Privileged and are awarded the equivalent of Michelin stars. This is normally more Autumn’s bag than mine. And, I suppose that I could have easily asked Autumn for one of her contacts – as undoubtedly she has them – but I didn’t want any of the girls to know that I was planning to do this sort of thing, as they would have tried to talk me out of it. All I did was look up ‘homeless’ on the internet, found out who was running a volunteer programme, then I called these guys and they were more than happy to have me come along to help out. And why wouldn’t they be? Any old idiot can dish out a few sprouts.
    A three-course traditional Christmas lunch for all-comers is being served in a crumbling church hall not too far from where I live. If they do get stars for this kind of establishment, then it wouldn’t get many for décor. Unless, of course, peeling paint becomes
de rigueur
. When I arrive, there’s the smell of roasting turkey in the air, but it’s overlaid with the rancid hum of unwashed clothes and bodies. Sitting at the rows of makeshift tables are a range of people from under-nourished teenagers with pizza faces to crusty old tramps with potatoes growing under their fingernails and matted hair. It shocks me that every seat is filled and there are more people waiting in line for spaces to become vacant. I had no idea that there were so many people who were alone at Christmas.
    ‘Here you are, dearie. Good to see you.’ Before I can decide that dishing out a few sprouts is, frankly, beyond me and make a run for it, an ample woman hands me a ladle and a red Christmas hat. She’s sufficiently jolly tostop me from getting too maudlin. She grins at me and I grin back. I too can do cheerful in the face of minor adversity. I might be miserable and alone, but I have a lot more to be thankful for than these folk. ‘Give them a nice big bowl of soup to start with,’ she tells me. ‘There’s plenty to go around.’
    Feeling slightly dazed, I find somewhere to put my handbag where it won’t be nicked and then I take my place in the soup distribution line. I’m just about to launch into my new role as humbled and selfless volunteer with a cheery disposition when I hear my name being called.
    ‘Lucy!’ My head spins round. I hadn’t expected to know anyone here. Which, to be truthful, was part of the attraction. Three people along the line, I see Clive, also ladle in hand. ‘What are you doing here?’
    I shift places, budging a silver-haired, twin-setted woman and man in a corduroy jacket and sandals out of the way, until I’m standing next to my friend. ‘The same as you, I guess.’
    ‘I couldn’t face being on my own,’ Clive admits as we dish out our soup to grateful recipients. ‘This seemed like a useful alternative.’
    ‘Great minds think alike.’
    ‘How did we end up like this?’ Clive wants to know. ‘We’re nice people, aren’t we? Why does no one want to be with us?’
    ‘You haven’t heard from Tristan?’
    He gives me a sad shrug. ‘Not a thing.’
    ‘When we’re through here, let’s spend the rest of the day together,’ I suggest. ‘I have champagne. I have chocolate. Ihave a wide range of microwavable food and some really rubbish board games.’
    Clive gives me a hug and my spirits lift. ‘Sounds perfect.’
    When we’ve finished serving lunch and the washing-up has been done, then the remaining volunteers sit down together. The turkey’s looking a little dried up by now and the roast spuds have gone soggy, but there’s laughter and camaraderie to help it down and it doesn’t taste so bad at all.
    As Clive and I are tucking into a tired helping of Christmas pudding and vaguely