The guy who works behind the bar at Bath Ales on George Street could pass as a doppelganger for Neville Longbottom. His lips struggle to keep his big chiclet smile concealed. The breezy quaff that makes up his hair shows off his high forehead. He’s friendly; you’d suspect by profession, but it feels like genuine personality. After he explains a redundancy on the menu I inquire about the homeless.
“Yeah, go ahead. What do you want to know?”
“What do you think of the homeless in Oxford?”
“Right. Well it’s a big issue, especially because Oxford is a very liberal place.”
“A lot of sympathy of the homeless?”
“Yes, both from the tourists and the locals. The majority of homeless aren’t from Oxford so they come here and exploit an environment.”
“How do you think the problem can be fixed?”
“I mean we live in a welfare state. There are various options out there for homeless people to have resources. At this point, with all the programs in place sleeping rough is almost a lifestyle choice.”
“Lifestyle choice like how?” It’s the first time I’ve heard such an aggressive assessment since being in Oxford.
“The help is out there, but you know they don’t want it. They want to keep using the drug, whatever it is, heroin.”
“Is there a heroin problem in Oxford?” He backs up a little bit feeling as if he’s misspoken. He looks at me.
“There are other drugs you can do. You know that don’t leave you out on the street like that. The truth is they’re using the money to buy drugs and alcohol. I mean I’ve watched them do it.” A crowd of five or six rowdy patrons enter the pub. I know I have time for maybe one more question.
“Have you been to the shelter on Speedwell Street?” He furrows his brow a bit while looking down.
“No, I’ve seen it from the outside though. It’s a bit of a feral place.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, cheers.”
I leave more assured that I have to find my way to Speedwell Street before my time in Oxford is up.
Word Slurpee 