I was keen on getting back to the States, and as close to Mexico as possible. I needed to sort out my papers, but I had no intention of going back to Italy as I would have had to join the army - people from my town used to get sent to the Alps, at the border with Jugoslavia, looking after donkeys and freezing their arse off. Sorryssir! I have better things to do with my lifessir!

And so there I was, in London town, speaking no English, watching my precious dollar supply shrink before my eyes. At first I stayed in Earls Court, but not being able to pronounce its name properly proved to be a problem when trying to buy an underground ticket, so I moved to Wood Green. I was being interviewed for a job in one of the official restaurants in Disney World in Orlando, a good gig if I got it, but a long process. My English wasn't too good, but you were supposed to know about 'culture' as well, and my youth misspent in libraries gave me some sort of an edge. The lady at the agency said she would sort out my paperwork too.

Everything was going according to plan, and eventually I got the job. I went to the agency on the morning we where supposed to leave, expecting my paperwork and ticket, all ready to set off for sunny Florida. As it turned out, the lady who was supposed to take care of my paperwork did nothing of the sort, so I found myself standing in the cold, watching the coach leave, and suddenly realizing I had very little money left. I gave the lady what, years later, became known as 'the hairdrier treatment' and went off to find myself a job.

I avoided Italian restaurants as I wanted to improve my English, so I found myself a job in Pizza Hut in Enfield, an area on the outskirts of north London which could be kindly described as 'a shithole'. I was interviewed by a nymphomaniac Colombian manager, and basically got the job because she wanted to find out what Italians are like in bed. At least, that's what she said, but in reality the Iranian store manager had  a scam going, whereby he would employ people who spoke no English, and pocket all their wages, safe in the knowledge they couldn't complain.

Eventually my money run out, and I found myself homeless. A guy I met at the last hostel took me to a place where homeless people went to sleep - not a pretty sight. It was a massive, rat infested basement with lots of mattresses forming a grid on the floor, and one single bathroom. I looked like a crackhouse, and I declined his invite. Instead I followed someone's suggestion to go and sleep at Heathrow airport, which was much better.

Heathrow proved a good place to live: there are four independent terminals, each with a few shops, so I could easily steal what I needed without the shopkeepers recognizing me (where I was brought up, begging, so popular with the local homeless, is considered much worse than stealing). For three months I had a really simple routine: wake up; steal a fresh pair of underwear if I had run out; use the previous day's tips to buy myself a travelcard, or jump the gates if I made no tips; go and have a shower at Kings Cross (30p); get into work, and stuff my face there. On my day off (I was always careful never to have two in a row) I would just hang around the airport, reading a book (which I'd steal from WHSmith's), or go into town if I had a few tips.

Throughout this time, the store manager kept saying my wages where on their way. Once, the Pizza Hut supervisor came into the restaurant and asked everybody if we were doing alright, but didn't stay long enough to hear our answer. It is amazing how vulnerable not speaking the local language makes you.

Then one night disaster struck. There was a small fire at the airport, so two policemen came around, woke everybody up and told them to go and sleep at the next terminal. The day after was my day off, and I bumped into the two policemen.
"I thought you were catching a plane in the early morning"
"Er.. I missed my plane, I have to wait for the next one"
Then one of them noticed the neck of a shirt sticking out of my rucksack. It had 'Heathrow Airport' printed on it.
"Do you have a receipt for that?"
"Err.. I must have thrown it away"
"Can you open your rucksack, please"

They were very nice about it. I told them about my ordeal (thank god I had the Pizza Hut uniform to back my story up) and they told me to make sure I never came back, and let me keep all the stuff i had nicked. I did go back, but one of the two cops (the bad one) caught me and roughened me up a bit. He didn't seem to like foreigners very much.

So I started sleeping at Victoria station. Nowhere near as nice, and full of tramps. Full of predatory homosexuals too - a paricularly insistent Finnish guy got thumped in the face. Sleeping was out of the question - I'd just sit down and nod off for a few minutes at the time. An alkie would spend the whole night shouting abuse at nobody in particular, sounding like a really pissed off gremlin - he looked like one too. Everyone sat around him, because he kept us all awake and also, in a sort of cathartic shamanic, helped us get rid of our frustration. At 5.30 I'd jump on the Circle Line, which, as the name suggests, never stops, lay down on two seats, cover myself with my coat and sleep until 11 or so. I slept right through the rush hour too!

On a saturday night I had made enough tips to rent a hotel room near Victoria. The night after I went back to pick up my passport, which I had forgotten at the hotel.
"Are you staying another night?"
"No, I didn't make enough tips today"
"I'll tell you what. There is a guy who's been staying here a week without paying, and the manger told me to call the police in the morning. I'll put you in the room with him (he's a wino and won't even notice) and will come and wake you up first thing in the morning, before the police comes."

And so he did - unluckily I was always bad with getting up in the morning, so I went straight back to sleep. The police found me in the room, and I was arrested as well. Turned out to be a blessing in disguise: the coppers called the Pizza Hut restaurant where I worked, and that started a chain of events which resulted in the manager being sacked (no other punishment) and me being payed three months worth of wages within the week, which meant I could finally rent a room. I was a bit annoyed at being sacked as well, and the wifebeater in the room next too mine in my new place wasn't the nicest of neighbours, but who cared - my homeless days were over.