The dirty cardboard placard in the bushes adjoining Bond Street was symptomatic of the day ahead.

Next to the words "homeless and losing hope" was the message "God bless you" and a hastily drawn smiling face.

The other side of the sign was covered in dry blood and the owner was nowhere to be seen.

For one day only I had traded in my suit for the dirtiest pair of black jeans I could find, a ripped T-shirt, black sweatshirt, filthy trainers and a woollen hat.

Although my attempts to look like a beggar were relatively successful I could only touch on what it was like to feel like one.

My first destination was the Bear Pit in the centre of St James Barton roundabout.

Although it was only 9.30am three of the four subways underneath the roundabout were already occupied by more experienced beggars than me.

All were accompanied by a sleeping bag and their pale complexion was the result of living a life in fear of the sun.

The only remaining subway available to me smelt of urine and was covered in cigarette butts.

I made my intentions clear with the unoriginal message "homeless and hungry", scrawled on a piece of cardboard, and the word "thanks" etched into a polystyrene cup.

During the hour that I was there 109 people walked past. I know it was 109 because the counting helped to pass the time.

Begging is the ideal antidote to those people who think life is passing them by.

When you are reliant on other people's charity, and forced to sell your esteem for a few pence, every minute seems like an hour and every hour seems like a lifetime.

While in the subway the closest I came to getting any money was when a young kid accidentally kicked over my makeshift collecting pot.

My presence caused a mixture of feelings among the passers by.

Some seemed genuinely moved by my apparent plight while others made little attempt to disguise their contempt.

A drunk wearing shoes that were too big walked past and eyed me up suspiciously.

For many people the Bear Pit is a microcosm of all that is wrong with Bristol.

It is the first impression a lot of shoppers have of the city centre but its closeness to Broadmead makes it a popular haunt for beggars.

After an hour I moved on and my second 'pitch' was next to the HSBC bank in Broadmead, and opposite a Lloyds TSB.

Home for the next two hours was a long since closed stationery shop.

My solution to the indignity of begging was to look mainly at people's feet.

As a result I could identity the handful of people who gave me money by the shoes they were wearing.

Begging is a boring business. No thought is required and the aim is to cocoon yourself in the belief that you are being paid to do nothing.

I was so successful in switching off that whenever someone did throw some coins in my direction it served to stir me from my slumbers.

One thought that struck me as I sat there with my legs crossed, on a stone floor, was the uncomfortable nature of begging.

Within a few minutes of being in the one position your entire lower body aches.

Before long your back hurts too and your shoulders begin to slump.

Another thought that helped fill the time was the concept that begging is bad for your health.

In recent months the press have been full of stories about deep vein thrombosis (DVT).

The condition is better known as Economy Class Syndrome, and is caused by long periods of immobility, particularly while on a plane.

As begging entails hours of sitting totally still doing nothing surely it carries the same risk?

Either way, when you are addicted to drugs or alcohol, the risk of dying from a stray blood clot is unlikely to figure high on the list of priorities.

My policy of only looking at people's feet meant I was caught off guard when a man knelt down beside me and said: "I think you know what I'm going to do."

Looking up I found the local - and surprisingly compassionate - face of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary bearing down on me.

"The shopkeepers have been complaining like buggery," he said. "I don't want to nick you because I've got better things to do, so you will have to remove the sign and the cup."

With that I was off.

Begging is a pride-stripping experience. With just a cardboard "homeless and hungry " sign in front of you there is nowhere to hide.

To avoid having to look people straight in the eye my secret was to fix my gaze on an imaginary mark on my trousers so that I continually looked downwards.

People are nosy and most of those that walked past couldn't resist seeing how much money I had in my pot.

I started with a float of 24p and had a policy that anything over 50p was hastily removed from sight so passers by didn't think I was so flush I didn't need their money.

As it was, only two 50p coins came my way and a £1 coin was the stuff of dreams.

The sight of someone begging generates some forthright opinions from the public but it's a too way process.

Watching the world go by highlights the sheer innocence of youth.

While adults went to great lengths to avoid you the instinct of young children is to look.

One young boy in khaki trousers even had to be dragged away by his embarrassed mother.

Although my sojourn into the world of begging was brief it was long enough to establish that a certain pecking order exists within it.

For instance the more experienced - or desperate - pitch up directly outside a cashpoint while novices like me go for the submissive approach.

During my whole day I never asked people for money once - preferring instead to play the sympathy card.

Those who favour the proactive approach normally have the worst drug habits.

It was while sitting in McDonalds that I first caught sight of one, who I nicknamed "Stigerthal".

I called him that because he was a cross between an old TV character called Stig, who used to live on a rubbish dump, and Neanderthal man.

With the obligatory blanket over his shoulders Stigerthal's favourite lines were "got any loose change?" or " can you spare 20p for a cup of tea?".

However his biggest weapons were his emaciated face and matted hair.

People were so shocked by his appearance they handed over money just to get rid of him.

The obvious conclusion about Stigerthal, who I was to see later, was that he was a drug addict and everybody knew it.

My next pitch was outside the now closed All Saints Church in Corn Street.

After my experiences with the police I kept my sign out of view, relying only on my cup.

Although my new tactics didn't prompt any fresh donations it did attract the attention of two alcoholics.

The brotherhood that exists within street people prompted one of them to tell me a photographer was sitting 100 yards up the road taking pictures of me.

"It's all wrong," he said, feigning genuine indignation.

However his next comment was more of a shock.

"Do you want a bottle of methadone?" he inquired as he knelt down beside me.

Looking at his associate he added: "We're both alcoholics and we only want £1.99 for a bottle of cider."

He explained that he was also a recovering heroin addict so the methadone was prescribed.

"The bottle is yours for £2," he added.

The fact was that if I didn't buy it then somebody else would so I paid the asking price and he left as quickly as he came.

The remaining hour outside All Saints Church was fruitless so I returned to Broadmead and a spot outside Tesco.

Once again with no "homeless and hungry" sign I failed to get many handouts.

However the 45 minutes I spent there were memorable for the sudden appearance of Stigerthal.

He hadn't changed much from earlier except he appeared more desperate.

As well as McDonalds his favourite haunt was near the Bristol Eye Hospital.

"The police seem to leave you alone round there," he said, after deciding to sit down beside me.

Then he made me an unexpected offer.

"Do you want to go halves with me on some crack?" he said.

He referred to the drugs by their slang names and pulled out a pocketful of change.

"It normally costs £15 but I can blag it for £13 or £14, " he said.

He counted out £8.30 and said if I could come up with the rest I was "in".

Oblivious to the shoppers that walked past he said he knew a car park in St Pauls where we could take the drugs.

"See how much you can get and I'll see you back here in half an hour," he said.

Needless to say I didn't see him again. There may be honour among thieves but there is none among drug addicts.

My last hour on the street gave me an insight into the psyche of a beggar.

To reduce the risk of arrest most don't use cups or placards - preferring instead to ask passers by direct.

Many have blankets draped over their shoulders - even in the summer - to counteract the cold chills associated with drug taking.

Walking back to the office I passed a relatively fresh-faced beggar outside Dixons.

His "homeless and losing hope" sign was identical to the one I had seen earlier and even had a smiling face and the words "God bless you" next to it.

My day as a beggar had yielded £5.65 but the most overriding feeling I felt as I walked away was relief.

Relief that I had a choice and could just walk away.

Relief that I didn't have to continually look over my shoulder for the police.

And relief that I wasn't trapped in some sort of Ground Hog Day existence, where your only goal is to get enough money to survive.