EVERY YEAR OUR FOODBANK HAS A 'CHRISTMAS CAROL' STORY FOR THE 21ST CENTURY. LIKE NIGHT FOLLOWS DAY. HERE IS THIS YEAR'S DICKENS MOMENT

176 years have slipped by since Charles Dickens published 'A Christmas Carol' in 1843. I guess it's fair to say the concept he came up with has stood the test of time. It has aged well.

The great man wrapped the cold realities of poverty in the abundance of Christmas. Back then, it was all about lovingly dressed shop windows showcasing goods only the rich could run to. On that front, things have certainly moved on. The shop windows of the old streets of Dickens tend to lack tinsel. They promise generous 4 to I odds on Wolves beating Brighton by more than two clear goals. They promise 20 gig of data for £13.99 a month. They promise the best price paid in town for gold. They don't often tempt the passer by with a fat goose or a fine array of pies.

Now the Christmas message assails us all through Facebook adverts and endless canned musak in soulless aircraft hangers masquerading as shops and TV ads doomed to be fast forwarded.

And yet the message is the same now as it was in 1843. This is Christmas. This is all the stuff you really should have. The stuff you need. To be a proper family. To hold your head up high. No matter what it costs. No matter how close your credit cards have to sail into the wind.

The have's and the have nots. The few and the many. The 0.1% and the rest. Dickens sent 'A Christmas Carol' out into a world which seems more familiar with each and every passing day. Capitalism in the raw. Buccaneering Britain. Safety nets are for wimps. When Charles penned the final full stop to his book, the average life span for a Manchester cotton worker was about thirty five years. Now there's a thought for Boris and his merry band of brothers. There's an old school solution to the growing social care crisis. Work the plebs into an early death and thereby negate those pesky duty of care issues.

Then as now, far away from the gaudy lights, lay poverty. Grinding. Abject. Utter. 'A Christmas Carol' drew aside the curtain and now it has become habit. We don't worry so much about the poor on November 22 or January 13 or February 3. But Christmas is different. Christmas pricks our collective conscience. Christmas shoves our thoughts to the hidden thousands in barely heated homes. With mould on the walls and nothing in the fridge.

And every Christmas, a new Christmas Carol story for the twenty first century arrives at our front door. First Base. The foodbank. The place where worlds meet if not collide. At our back door, a procession of truly wonderful people pull up their cars to unload food donations by the tonne. And through the front door come those on the wrong end of the new buccaneering Britain. Pale. Bowed. Beaten. Heads down. Voices quiet.

Most of the time the poverty is run of the mill. Nickel and dime. Usual. Familiar. Ends not being met. Incomings overwhelmed by outgoings. Money stopped. Money stolen. Money all gone into the power meter. Money just not there. The same as November and January and February. Alms for the poor.

But as sure as night follows day, there will be a Dickens moment. A 'Christmas Carol' moment. A moment when the sheer misery of the whole thing stops you in your tracks. I mean, bad at any time. Bloodly lousy at any time. But at Christmas.........

The moment usually arrives with a phone call. Like a whisper. Like a gust of breeze on a rain drenched day. The voice at the other end of the line is always the same.

Small. Lost. Achingly embarrassed. Apologising. Yearning not to have to negotiate the sentences.

“.... I'm so sorry to bother you....”

“....I never thought I would ever have to make a call like this.....”

Then the facts of the matter. One by one. Each worse than the one before. Bad at any time. Bad in November. Bad in January. Bad in February. But at Christmas …....

Christmas just makes it all see so much worse. It shouldn't, but it does. And every year one set of desperate realities arrive through our door and arrange themselves into our 'Christmas Carol' moment.

To stop us in our tracks.

A quiet voice on the other end of the line. Ultra polite. Hanging by a thread. All but overwhelmed by the utter misery of the situation.

A brother in his forties. A brother who had been a successful tradesman for many years. Self employed. Self reliant. Doing OK. Doing fine. Doing well. A success story. Then disaster.

An utter disaster. A massive health crisis culminating in an amputation. And of course there is nothing quiet as Dickensian as an amputation. Now of course losing a limb doesn't mean you can't be a tradesman any more. Of course it doesn't. People who lose limbs climb Everest and marry Liverpudlian pop legends. But it takes time to adjust. To get used to having three instead of four. One instead of two. Learning how to be brave and remarkable and inspiring takes a while. A few months.

Well surely an actual amputation has to be enough to warrant some reasonable State support? Surely. Enough cash to cover the bills and focus on rehab. I mean, even the minions of austerity Britain have to accept an amputation as actually a pretty big deal. Surely?

Sadly not. The small voice on the other end of the line takes me through months of quiet desperation. Minimal benefits. Her hours cut all the eay back to 20 a week. And their mum is ill. Housebound. In need of daily care. And twenty hours a week can only stretch so far. Like a tired elastic band. Until the tired elastic band finally gives up the ghost and snaps. Breaks. Becomes unfit for purpose.

No money left. No space on the credit cards left. Not piggy bank to crack open. No nothing. Just a phone number. Our phone number. The number she never in a million years thought she would ever have to call.

The number she has now dialled up. In the last days before Christmas. In the midst of all those Facebook ads and endless musak.

And one last thing. The brother now has a date in the diary. For his assessment. All those questions carefully crafted to make 'No' the answer. Can you lift your arms above the level of your shoulders? Can you dress yourself? Can you climb the stairs? Can you....

And the appointment is on 27 December. After over six months of waiting. The appointment is on the other side. On the day millions trudge back to work. Beyond the lavish spreads and glittering tinsel.

Too late to help with a bit of shopping. Too late to get the heating back on. Too late to move beyond candlelight. Just too late.

So we make our arrangements. And an hour later the voice from the other end of the phone becomes an actual person in reception. Smartly dressed. Ill at ease. Completely lost in the unfamiliarity of the grinding desperation.

And we provide food enough to take her brother all the way into January. And we provide a print out pointing towards other areas of help.

We do what we can. The lines on her forehead ease slightly. A ghost of a smile flickers briefly.

An then she is gone. Out into the rain. The cold. The harsh reality. And I just stand and stare at the door for a while.

Then I shake it off and get on with the tasks of the day.

So dear reader. There you have it. The edited highlights. The bare bones. The warts and all. Our Christmas Carol moment of 2019. The last of the decade.

If you would like to help us to keep on doing what we do, you can find our online fundraising page via the link below.

THE FIRST BASE ONLINE FUNDRAISING PAGE

Oh. Nearly forgot. Have a great Christmas.