Homeless people, empty homes … it doesn't take a genius to figure it out
I think it says something about me that I plan to start a column for a housing magazine with a story about homelessness. I can't help it. It's on my mind. When I was a kid my father was foreign correspondent for Danish television. I say that like he was one of many. In fact, Denmark is a very small nation and my dad was the foreign correspondent. This meant that we moved countries a lot and lived in a large number of hotels. By an early age I was adept at appropriate tipping, ordering from room service and reading the Gideon Bible. On one occasion my father decided to hire a car and the rental clerk asked him for his permanent address.

"Yes," said my father after a slight pause, "I don't have one of those but I could give you the make of my suitcase." Although I didn't know it at the time, my family were, in the modern parlance of demographic analysis, "experiencing homelessness". My mother would have been aghast at the thought.

About 12 million adults in the United States have "experienced homelessness". I don't think it's a good phrase as it has the misfortune of making the occurrence sound like a theme park ride. Exact figures are difficult to discern because "being homeless" can mean anything from living on the streets, to temporarily shacking up with your great-aunt Dymphna or even living long term in a hotel as an itinerant journalist. All I know is that I was recently in San Francisco and there hardly seemed to be a person in the city on the bay who had a home to go to.

There were two things that struck me the moment I arrived over the Golden Gate. The first was the great Coit Tower, that wonderful folly of a building that dominates the skyline, and the second was the astonishing number of people living on the street. I don't think there was an avenue or an alley without several people huddled on the pavement holding out open palms, baseball caps or plastic cups for a few pennies from the passers-by. The difficulty of dealing with the issue was on everyone's lips. While I was there a grand jury of noble citizens had passed a motion of censure against the mayor for his handling of the mounting problem. I don't know how upset this would have made him. He is the third incumbent in a row to be told he's being ineffective.

I was staying in a very central hotel. Outside the front doors, close enough to appear almost to be an employee, sat Jake. Jake was homeless but he had found a regular spot and each morning he and I exchanged a few pleasantries. One day, after our brief chat, I wandered south by mistake, away from the big stores, the crowds and the cable cars climbing halfway to the stars.

Within a block or two I was in a neighbourhood clearly not on any list of "must see" sights of the city. Here there were acres of empty buildings, deserted streets and very nearly sagebrush whistling past my ankles. I know I seem simple but I did stand there and think: empty buildings, lots of people with nowhere to go …

I didn't have time to sort the matter out, as I was off to film at the Coit Tower. The tower stands on top of Telegraph Hill and is one of the world's great pieces of eccentricity. It was named after the late Lillian Hitchcock Coit. It seems Miss Coit was not only very wealthy but also extremely fond of the San Franciscan Fire Department. When she died she left a large sum of money to build a memorial to "her boys". There are those that say the tower, which you can climb up inside, is shaped like the brass nozzle on a fire hose. Those in the know, however, will tell you that it is actually a tribute to a rather more personal piece of a firefighter's equipment which had provided dear Lillian with many hours of pleasure. It has a great view from the turret, where I swear the whistling wind sounds like Miss Coit laughing.

About 12 million adults in the USA have ‘experienced homelessness’. I don’t think it’s a good phrase as it has the misfortune of making it sound like a theme park ride

After we finished filming we went to a restaurant near the hotel. Here I waxed patronisingly to my colleagues about solutions for the homeless. My plain meal of chicken breast defeated me, consisting as it did of the unnecessary slaughter of three whole birds with a pair of breasts each. I asked for a doggy bag and took it out to Jake.

"I brought you some dinner," I said to him.

"What is it?" he enquired.

"Chicken", I said. "Actually, it's chickens."

Jake shook his head. "No thanks, it's Friday and I'm Catholic. I'll wait for fish."