On a strip of cold concrete tunnel in Central London, a man unzips his tent and shuffles out. He is tall and well-dressed and appears unfazed by the hordes of cyclists in suits zooming past him as he straightens up.
It is Friday evening and like many living rough along Castle Baynard Street in the City of London, he is getting ready to escape the chaos of the night ahead. He grabs a bottle of softener from his tent, which reeks of mothballs and is neatly packed with piles of old newspaper, and makes off for the nearest exit.
