'I'm houseless, not homeless' says man in tent outside Beeston Sainsbury's with books, DVDs and toothbrush
As the people of Beeston wander breezily by on a warm September morning, many turn their heads as they pass this one, particular spot. Each face scrunches into a predictable sequence of expressions: Surprise, then bewilderment, then amazement.
Just metres from them, on a sheltered square of brickwork by the wall of the Sainsbury's supermarket, is a tent. It's a small, blue, one-man tent - not unlike those that most people wouldn't bat an eyelid at if they saw a homeless person emerge from it.
But there's a whole lot different about this one. Outside is a doormat. 'Welcome', it says. Beyond that is a rug. Pan wider and you'll notice a chair. Then a coffee table. A bookshelf. Stacks of DVDs.
"I'm sorry but unfortunately I don't want a house. I've got a home," pipes up a pink-haired man standing nearby, gesticulating at the makeshift living room behind. "I'm houseless. But I'm not homeless. Because that's a home."
The man introduces himself as JJ, a liberal and bohemian "60-or-thereabouts"-year-old. He set up camp here about four weeks ago.
When he arrived, he didn't have so much. As time's gone on, his collection of belongs has grown. And grown. And grown.
Some local business owners - of which there a few, scattered within metres of his living quarters - have expressed contempt at his presence. "It's like a living room," said one, of the loud music-playing and drinking which goes on later in the evening in the vicinity.
But others were more complimentary. "He's actually a really nice guy," said a different shop. "He comes in and buys coffee and he's quite friendly."
Over the past four weeks, since he moved in, JJ has accumulated quite an eclectic mix of mostly homeless companions. They're all "beautiful people," and together a "small community," he explains.
"I have friends and we drink. That's not excessive," he says. "We drink as much as anybody who goes to Wetherspoons, for goodness sake."
There were also accusations of JJ and his people using a nearby side-alley as an en-suite bathroom. He denies any wrongdoing.
"I go to Wetherspoons," he says. "Eight am, it opens, I go for a number two and get a coffee. I don't do it anywhere else. That's not me. I'm a man and I'm proud and I've got more self respect than that - I will not do that on my own doorstep. If I need a wee in the middle of the night, I go round the corner and out of the way.
"Alright, I have a pee. But I'm always hidden. No-one sees anything. It's behind a damn bin. Look, we've all done it. We're lads. You've done it. 'Course you have. If you have to empty your bladder at 3am what do you do? Do you find somewhere that's open? There's nowhere. If you see a bloke having a pee, so what? It's not the end of the world. Get on with your damn day, for God's sake."
His new crowd in Beeston are just a handful of friends he's made along the way in his houseless life - one that sometimes is forced upon him, but one that he evidently doesn't mind. Previous stints on the street have found him in the Lace Market, on London Road and in Hockley - to which he returns three times a week to check old pals are "still alive".
In total, he's been on and off the streets for 40 years. He recounts a nomadic previous life as a lecturer, flying "between continents" to teach in High Victorian Culture, Shakespeare, Jacobean Tragedy, Anglo-Saxon and Early Middle English.
There was also the stint as a bare-knuckle boxer in the eighties, and as a concert pianist before an elbow injury ended that. He was born in Oldham near Manchester but moved to Nottingham some years ago.
Before Beeston he was living in a private-rented property, in Carlton. But he got banned from the area for a crime he won't go into the details of, and couldn't go back, so stopped paying rent and was told to get out.
That led him here. He says he's in no rush to find somewhere else.
"Look, if I get a place, it will be for my stuff," he says, pointing at the belongings. "That's my life. But I would still sleep outside because I want to wake up and see that thing - it's called the sky. Not a blooming ceiling."
The heaps of possessions have been transported here over the course of the last few weeks by friends. Because he can't go to Carlton, he'll send others in a taxi to collect what they can, and bring it back.
There's furniture of his and antiques that remain in the house. They'll have to go, he explains. He'll just buy them again, as he has done time and time again. "It gets tiring," he says. "Very tiring indeed."
Of that which has made it here, there's more than first meets the eye. That rack of DVDs is actually a boxset of BBC Shakespeare plays.
There's a number of sofa cushions, "for anybody else who might need it for the night," and the ashes of his adopted "nephew" Paul, who died in May, as well as other "special stuff that nobody touches." There's CDs from classical composers and "stuff until the nineties when I gave up on blooming music", as well as books - mostly poetry by Hardy.
They're kept on a bookshelf which is far too big to have been able to have come in a taxi. JJ is quick to explain.
"I'm a skip rat," he says proudly. "This came out of a damn skip."
Still there's more. "That's my larder," says JJ, pointing at some food items and a bottle of milk, refrigerating in the shade.
There's a shoe rack. Cutlery. Even a bin - and a brush to sweep the area clean. Then, on a little makeshift shelf, a can of deodorant and a toothbrush.
Does he brush his teeth? "Of course I do," he says. "I'm not a flipping tramp."