He meets me at the station, and we embrace.

We walk through a Shopping Centre and out into the streets filled with more shops and shoppers, heading to KFC for some lunch. A young African man sees him, greets him - 'Bonjour, mon frere', a warm handshake, and with me, too. After he had gone I said 'Who is he? Is he from your country?' 'No, he is from Congo. He is like me. He walks all day'. Oh, we should have asked him to join us - Thomas looked for him, but he was gone.

KFC was full, bursting with hungry shoppers so we walked on.

I pulled out my map and showed him the bowling alley and explained that we could go bowling. His face went somber. 'No. No I don't want to do this.' Then he explained: if he does something like that, he will want to do it again tomorrow. It is easier not to do it. When he has money, he must spend it on food. I ask him if he still plays football - No. People get too excited. They care too much about the outcome, it is best to leave it alone. To watch it is good, it makes him happy - to watch a good match - beautiful! But not to play. Never again.

It is important not to want too much, not to have a little - it distresses you, it makes you want. It makes you a thief, a criminal. Just walk past it all.

I have brought him a copy of Le Monde, the only French language publication I can find at the station. He is delighted. He opens it up and begins to read, hungrily. Then puts it away, partly so as not to be rude, partly so he can savour it later. He carries it rolled up in both hands all day. I had looked at it on the train - no sports section at all. Next time, I will plan ahead and try to get Le Figaro or something.

We go to a Cantonese restaurant. He is worried about the expense to me and uncertain of the food, but ends up loving it, especially the dark salty beef with squishy fat rice noodles, and the plate of vegetables.

Sometimes he goes three or four days, a week without food.

He has a dream, he tells me over lunch, to go back to his country and open a place where people who have nothing can come and have a meal, maybe pick up some clothes, sit down, be safe. That is all he wants to do. Not football, not anything glorious. Just to do that. Even just for a few people, 50 people in a week. Who knows what might grow from that. To know that you could have one meal in a week, to know for certain that you would have that… what a difference that would make. This is what he thinks about as he walks. He imagines the place, and maybe a little space outside where, maybe, he could train them in football. People from St Thomas' might be able to send a little money. I might be able to come and work there for a while.

He imagines all this as he walks and walks and walks. He tells me about people he has seen in Africa, particular individuals, a girl in a dress that he can see she has been wearing for years, the dress smaller and smaller, thinner and thinner.

I told him I would like to pay for him to stay in a hotel for the night. 'Anne, that is very nice. But no. Tonight is not so cold.' Some night, when it is very cold, or raining hard, with the cash I've brought, he can go to some place on the outskirts, where you can sleep very cheap.

If he stayed there tonight, the contrast is too sharp. It would be a long time before he could feel happy that today is a little warmer, today it isn't raining. Things would seem hard. It is very important to feel that you are ok, fine, today is ok. Otherwise, you become sad, or you become a thief.

It is important to keep clean, to keep your clothes clean. With the cash I've brought he will buy another pair of trainers in the market. Then he can wash one pair and wear the other.

He doesn't always have a place to stay. He knows people with 2 rooms, but 3 or 4 children. If the children are not there, they call him and say he can stay. Otherwise, he sleeps between buildings, out of the wind. There is a library where he used to go and sit and keep warm and read. But now they ask for documents - do you have a card? But of course, with no home, no papers, you have no card. And there was a place, for asylum seekers. That was good. But now they want to see your documents, to ensure that you have not been refused.

Churches are good. You can go into a church, listen to the music, keep warm and forget everything while you're there.

We talked about football. Arsenal - he admires Arsene Wenger, a man who does not talk too much, a man who has patience, who will nurture and wait. In a few years, no one will be able to touch them. When Arsenal are playing well - he kisses his fingers, very French - oh it is beautiful! But, like me, it makes him very happy when West Ham beat Arsenal and Tottenham beat Chelsea. This gives him hope. Things might not go the way it seems they will.

Talking to Thomas, a footballer who has renounced football, I try to imagine my son, a musician, renouncing music.

We leave the restaurant and walk and walk and walk. He does not look in the shops, just walks, keeps warm, uses the toilet. The dead white light, the piped carols, huge red signs 50% OFF HALF PRICE SALE , the throngs of shoppers, a dull intensity, anaesthesia.

After we had sat for a couple of hours in the restaurant, it became clear that he was anxious to walk again. Sitting still, resting his feet, filling his belly, the anesthesia had worn off. We walk fast, from one end to another, up each level to the top, down again to the bottom. Occasionally an African face in the crowd turns, for one brief moment, smiles broadly, hand outstretched, their hands touch - 'Mon frere' - then each walks on.

Designed to keep madness at bay, it is almost madness, all this walking.

How long would it take, if no one came and called upon your courtesy to make you sit down, eat, talk, how long would it take before you became permanently anaesthetized?

There are benches, plenty of benches. White people sit on them, old people, the occasional Asian family. But the Refused, they never sit down.

In one of the malls is a large tank of tropical fish. I stop and look; he almost swims on but with an effort of will driven by his unfailing courtesy he joins me.

After a moment or two of a kind of confusion, he takes delight in them, strokes the glass with his rolled-up copy of Le Monde, and most especially takes delight in the Turkish children who excitedly point out to us this fish, that fish.

Later, he smiles broadly at the sight of a little girl remonstrating with her father over some trivial thing and says, ' I like children so much. They make me happy.'

He is a Desert Father, St Anthony of Padua, with the shopping malls of the Midlands for his desert.

I learned a great deal from this young man, easily young enough to be my son.

I had not understood the spiritual discipline that he has to call upon. The luxuries I had wanted to give him - a day spent having fun, a clean bed to sleep in, with shower and TV - were impossible. They would undermine his determination and deep desire to stay good, to avoid the temptations of covetousness, envy, wrath at the injustice of his situation, despair.

In the news recently was the story of a 14 year old boy who sailed solo across the Atlantic. An amazing achievement. Even with state of the art technology and his father following close behind with constant radio contact - it is a feat of determination and courage.

But I think of Thomas, and so many others like him, who set sail in leaky, uncovered boats with nothing but prayer and desperation. And when they reach the other shore, they find ignominy, destitution, hopelessness. Their courage, their fortitude, their hope and work and youth, their goodness are worth nothing.

Thomas knows and loves my boys, my own sons. He asked after them, straightaway with love and genuine concern. He was glad to hear that Tris is immersed in music, playing with a blues band, a jazz band and a swing band; that Theo loves science and aims to be a scientist - and there is nothing to stop him , other than his own laziness. Thomas did not think, as I did, but why should their gifts bear fruit, and not his? - why should Thomas not be a footballer or a teacher, why should his gifts NOT bear fruit, why should he spend his 20s pacing the shopping malls of the Midlands?