My new job puts me in contact with what may be classed as 'leftover people'. These are the people that society has forgotten. If you like, they've fallen through the cracks, and are just there, existing, drifting though indifference.
I met one such 'exister' yesterday.
I work for an agency which provides a service, refurbishing and updating housing to meet a decent standard. I have met all sorts of people through this, all with one major thing in common - they've given up on themselves.
This particular individual lives with his brother, who has a low mental age, in a property they have inherited from their parents. I was called in because it was believed that a rogue trader was attempting to rip these two hapless men off, through bogus repairs, and ultimately through a deal in which the brothers sign over their property to them, in order to live as 'tenants'.
The gentleman I met has a drink problem, and, when we knocked on the door, a ramshackle individual eventually answered, then promptly fell over. Myself and a colleague had to help him to a chair, both of us holding on to him. He'd been drinking all day, watching cricket.
As his story unfolded it was obvious that this man was not ignorant of the facts, by any means. He'd travelled, held down a good job, and he'd in the past carried out some good work on his property.
But, it became increasingly obvious that this is a front. The years of abuse through excessive drinking had robbed him of his dignity and common-sense, and he is now easy prey for the conmen that feed on the weak.
I examined the house - the conmen wanted money from him to repair the roof. I found nothing wrong with it, except for a few loose slates. The conmen wanted £4000 off him, which they were prepared to 'write-off' as part of the deeds transfer.
Each time we tried to steer the conversation around to what was happening to him, the man would change the subject, or swig at his beer.
Eventually we spelled it out - the conmen want your house, at a fraction of it's worth, to sell on, whether you are tenants or not - in other words, they risk being turfed out onto the street. Finally the penny dropped.
The man's brother came home during our meeting. A very simple man, quiet, in a world of his own. We couldn't get through to him. His brother did, in a fashion, and both agreed to let us help.
They had been sold down the river on the back of a few cans of lager, and the promise of a few easy quid. Shocking, in a so-called civilised country, in the 21st century.
The whole sordid affair reminded me of a Dickensian tale of betrayal, and of exploitation of people who felt they no longer had choices.
It was a stark lesson.
Stark in so much that I realised that during my depressive periods, when my only comfort was a can of beer, when I stopped caring, when I gave up on myself, I was slowly turning into the poor, desparate man sat in front of me. He was oblivious. When I was at my worst, so was I.
And so, I liken this experience to that of Ebeneezer Scrooge, when he is shown the outcome of his behaviour. I saw myself, in 20 years time, sat in front of the TV all day with only beer for company, and only alcoholic aneasthesia for comfort.
It's so easy to roll over and give up on yourself, your talent, your promise, and accept easy pleasures as a way of numbing yourself to the loss of your youth.
And I realise how perilously close I was to following that path.
The uplifting side of all of this is that the experience gave me a jolt. It told me, 'this could happen to you if you let it - but you still have time to prevent it - you are still in control'. In a strange way it gave me a feeling of optimism.
Maybe I had to see what rock-bottom feels like, so that I can appreciate what I have now, and can have if I make it so. Perhaps all that has happened recently is serving to show me something, just like Marley's ghost does to Scrooge. I now strongly believe that I have to go through this in order to grow and learn how dark life can be when you give up on yourself.
I want my ghost of Christmas present to be the one who opens up the doors, lets the good stuff in, and buys Tiny Tim a turkey.
And herein lies a lesson for us all.
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