I WAS in Perth recently seeing all the well-dressed young people on their way to lunches and meetings for the Melbourne Cup.
As I came up the escalator from the station I heard a soft voice saying: “Can you spare some change.”
I looked to see a young man sprawled on the concrete stretching out his hand.
He was, I would say, an ice addict. He was filthy, shoeless and looked like he was dying.
People walked past, ignoring him.
I stopped because for one moment I thought he was my son who is a drug addict living on the streets.
I won’t ever forget the sight of that poor young man and I wonder what is wrong with our society when there are people out there, sick people suffering from the terrible drug.
My son is there somewhere. He was in rehabilitation for some months but we lost him again soon after his discharge.
I can’t have him living with me but I know that one day I will be told that he has died from his way of life, or is murdered.
He is always in my thoughts and there are days when I go looking for him in the city parks.
But I know that he is lost to me and I will never forget the desperate look of the young man lying in the street.
Name and address supplied.