Everyone on the streets of Bath this cold February night walks hurriedly, heads ducked into coats, hands shoved into pockets. On a chilly night like this no-one wants to be hanging around. With only an hour between class and a meeting I don't have time to walk home to have dinner and then catch the bus up to campus, so I head down North Parade Street, then past the Abbey to go to Sainsbury's for some food.

The square by the Abbey, which is filled with people and pigeons during the day, is now deserted. The Abbey is beautiful lit up, and I stop a moment to look at its splendor, tall tower and arching supports, gleaming stained glass windows, bright against the dark night sky. Unfortunately my nose is feeling slightly numb, so I don't stay long.

I hurry past the Roman Baths, and the Pump Room, and then down the street towards Sainsbury's. Here my journey is slowed a little when I get stuck behind a couple holding hands who are walking at an unhurried pace. Just as I am about to step off the sidewalk to walk around them, from across the street a woman, with long brown hair, and a German Shepherd stumbles towards us.

"Could you spare me 23 p," she asks, holding out her hand. With a slight hunching of their shoulders, the couple ignores her, continuing their conversation as if they haven't heard anything. She turns to me, "23 p, please, I just need 23 p."

Always one to feel guilty about ignoring a person I find it even harder to ignore such a specific request. I dig into my pockets, even though I know the money is probably going to alcohol. I have seen this woman before, once in the middle of the afternoon in Bath Abbey Square, lying down drunk accompanied by a man, a wine bottle, and the German Shepherd. Tonight it was the dog that I recognized first. I sift through the coins in my hand using the pale orange street light to see. I have a 2 p, a 1 p, a 50 p but no 20 p.

"Anything you can spare," she says, as I pick up the angled 50 p.

"Here, you go," I say.

"Cheers, love." She heads up the street, and I continue down to Sainsbury's, pondering the fact that I have just effectively thrown some money away. I then try to put it out of my mind as I enter the brightly lit store jam-packed with people. I mull over my dinner options in the "ready to go" section and finally choose a spicy chicken pasta for ₤1.80. Then wait in line listening to a bland woman's voice declare "till number two please," "till number four please," "till number one please" until, at last, it is my turn to go to "till number 5 please" before heading back out into the dark evening.

I walk back up the street towards the Abbey. The woman is now sitting on the stoop of Boots, the German Shepherd lying beside her, a glass bottle wrapped in brown paper behind her. "Can you spare me some change," she asks. I slow my pace and remind her, "I've already given you money."

"Oh yeah, I'm sorry, it's been a long night," she says slowly.

When I was studying in Granada, Spain last semester I went to a talk by a volunteer organization called Solidarios. One of the many programs they ran was one where they would spend time visiting the homeless, bringing them hot chocolate and coffee, and more importantly, company. They said that one of the hardest aspects of being homeless is not lack of money or food, it is lack of human contact. Sometimes the homeless in Granada will go days without really speaking to someone.

Thinking of this I stop, and then, not knowing what else to say, and curious about the fact that her request was so specific I ask, "Why 23p?"

"For spirits," she replies. Alcohol, just what I thought. Then I feel awkward for having asked. I should have just walked by, I think to myself. Her dog sniffs at my hand holding the pasta. "Not for you dear," I say, "This is my dinner."

"She's already eaten," the woman tells me, "This lady always gets her dinner first. Even if I don't eat, she gets fed." I feel guilty holding food, but don't know what to do. Give her the food, and then go back for more? But I don't really have the time to do that, or the extra money to spend.

I stroke the dog's tawny brown and black head, "What's her name?"

"Pepsi."

"She's beautiful." I give her a pat; then not sure what else to say, get ready to go, "Well, have a good night."

"That's a bit of condescending thing to say, isn't it?" she slurs, angry. I stop; look at the ground embarrassed, "I'm sorry."

She leans back to look me in the eye, "Jus' say see you later."

"Okay," I say, awkwardly, "See you later." Then walk off feeling like a complete idiot. Am I any better than the couple who pretended not to see her? What do I know about life on the streets? What kind of offering is fifty pence, and a "Good night?"

And yet, sometimes a kind word is appreciated. A couple weeks ago, in Bath, I was one my way home with a housemate when we were asked by two men for money to buy alcohol. We just smiled, shook our heads and offered a cordial good evening. "Thank you ladies," they said, "At least you gave a kind word, that is more than many people do."

Tonight I was only trying to be nice, it wasn't necessary for her to get angry with me and it's not my fault if she spends the money she gets from begging on alcohol instead of using it for food. But even these thoughts don't make me feel less uncomfortable about my blundering attempts at kindness. And later that evening as I eat my macaroni, it sticks in my throat.