Every night, a row of tents appears beneath the stone arches of the Heals Building on Tottenham Court Road. Around 25 people make their beds there, protected from the wind and rain. For 15 years, they’ve followed a strict code: pack up by 8 AM, be friendly, leave nothing behind.
Then came the planters. Suddenly, where the tents used to sit, large pots of greenery appeared. They look like decoration—but to those who sleep there, they’re a quiet weapon. Hostile greenery, they call it.
Tony Long has been sleeping outside that building since 2018. A Michelin-star chef who suffered a breakdown, he knows the value of belonging. “It’s rare to establish such a relationship as a camp,” he says, glancing at the planters that now block his spot.
The group got one day’s warning—which among rough sleepers is considered generous. Tony smiles toward the store: “Heals gave us more warning than other places ever have.” Staff there used to bring hot drinks. They helped with outreach. A quiet community had formed.
But now the planters stand in their place. And it’s not just here. Walk a few minutes around Tottenham Court Road and you’ll see more camouflaged evictions. Across the street, black plant pots sit in the shade—covering what used to be a tent spot.
Outside University College Hospital, bike racks block an area where tents were once crushed in a rubbish bin. The racks are fenced off anyway, sitting unused. Nearby, rows of shelters for dustbins keep the trash dry—while the people who slept there are gone.
Everywhere you look, hostile greenery hides a quiet war. The city pretends to beautify. But for those who have nowhere else to go, it’s just another way of saying: you don’t belong here.
