Christmas night, 8 p.m.: Philip Joyce (38) and his sister-in-law, Winifred Joyce (43), said they'd be here.
But approaching the sprawling bundle of blankets, sleeping bags, plastic bags and empty Coca-Cola and vodka bottles on the pavement at Baggot Street bridge, Dublin, one couldn't be sure if life breathed beneath.
Then a foot emerges from under the pile and when their names are called the blankets are pulled back and the two look up blearily.
"God bless you," they rasp when we say we have two plates of hot turkey and roast potatoes, and a bottle of whiskey in the car if they want it.
Just over a fortnight ago The Irish Times spoke to the two Travellers. They explained then that until three years ago they had been living, with Philip's late wife and two children, in a caravan in Ringsend, but it was no longer available to them.
They said they would not stay in hostels because they did not want to be separated. Nor would they be going to any of the soup kitchens or hostels for Christmas dinner. They'd be here, they said, in the same place, by the bridge over the Grand Canal at Baggot Street.
Winifred asks for a cigarette, and then for it to be lit for her. She can hardly move with the cold, she says.
Both remove the foil from the plates of food, asking whether it's hot and whether there is any salt on it. Though Philip eats a good amount, Winifred takes just a bite before saying she can't eat it. They begin drinking the whiskey immediately, and by the time we part, about 15 minutes later, they have drunk nearly half of it.
It is dark. There's a biting wind and a soft, freezing, drizzle.
Asked what they have done all day, Philip says they have done nothing. "Just been here. We've been here seven days," he says, before explaining that they have moved around the corner since we last spoke.
"The police came and told us to move all our stuff. Told us we were dirt. Told us we were just knackers."
Their companion, Martin, they add, was taken into a hostel by Simon the previous night "because he was in such a state".
Pointing down at his feet, Philip says he has no shoes and that he has lost the power of his legs because of the cold. "What's that thing called? Frostbite. I can't feel them. I can't move. I haven't moved from here. You couldn't get us an old pair of crutches?" he asks. "The frost gets into the blankets every night and we can't get warm. That's why we have to drink. It's the only thing that keeps us alive."
They say they know it's Christmas Day and a lot of people have brought them food. Opened packets of biscuits, several mince pies and unopened sandwiches are strewn about.
Winifred says she thinks of her daughter, Bridget, who died of an overdose three years ago aged 20.
"She was a beautiful baby," she says. "I miss her at Christmas time, but that's all. All else we need is a caravan. We badly need a caravan. You couldn't get us a caravan? We badly need one."
Pulling the several layers of damp sweaters up about her torso, she reveals her skin as red, with small sores beneath her breasts which she says are from the cold.
"My chest is very sore. I don't know what's going to happen to us," she coughs. "I think we're going to die out here in this cold."