At the end of a pleasant evening at the Royal Festival Hall listening to poetry, we are walking down the road, chatting. The subject of conversation; modest swimwear of our youth. On a doorstep, a young woman sits, her head hanging forward, talking into a mobile ‘phone. Her hands are covered in blood. We pause, look at her, at each other. In a slurred voice she thanks us, but refuses our offers of help. Someone is coming she says. She lifts her head, and through the curtain of bleached blond hair her face is bloody. We wish her a safe goodnight, head for the flat and find the number for Safer Southwark.