A Hair-raising Adventure

Living a nomadic life has many drawbacks, not least of these being the difficulty of finding a decent barber.  A recent experience of mine will I think support this claim.

Combing the streets (no pun intended) of a small town upwards of Manchester, I was pleased to see several barbers almost neighbouring each other, and as I was on a budget I plumped for the cheapest (a dry cut for less than a tenner) and as I was eager to move on, I chose the quietest (only one other client inside).  But as I ventured in, I almost immediately began to regret my decision.

There were two crimpers on duty, one called Trudy, a peroxided Mancunian, the other named Liz, a Bolton brunette with an orange flash to the fringe, who was behind the counter making use of the quiet period by having a very loud conversation with her husband.  I say conversation, let’s call it a row, because that’s indeed what it was, and while I say husband, let’s call him a bastard because that’s indeed what she was calling him.

Now at this point you’d think that while Liz’s issues clearly needed addressing, she might’ve put them on hold to greet a new customer, namely me.  But no, she merely looked me up and down and pointed to a chair to indicate that I should wait, then deftly took her ‘conversation’ into the back.

Here was my chance to leave the shop instead, but part of me wanted to stay, because even though Liz was now ‘offstage’ I could still hear every word.  As could Trudy and her gentleman client, and things were clearly hotting up out there.  So I chose to hang around and listen to a conversation that went something like this:

Liz:  (OFFSTAGE)  You’re a bastard!

Bastard: (UNHEARD) …

Liz: How can you say that when I have proof!?  You bastard!

Bastard: (UNHEARD) …

Liz:  No!  You’re a liar, a fucking liar and a bastard!

And so on and so forth.

Now while all this was beginning to tickle me and I was thinking I’d spent more than a tenner on lesser entertainment, I might be excused for expecting an apology from Trudy for noises off.  So imagine my surprise/horror/delight when Trudy herself began to chip in…

Trudy:  You tell him, Liz!

Liz: (STILL OFFSTAGE)  You’re a bastard!

Trudy: You tell the bastard!

Liz:  You’re a bastard and a shit!

By now the tears were rolling down my cheeks, not just because of these two angry women ganging up on the bastard, but also because of the poor client sitting in his chair terrified he was going to lose an ear or even get decapitated.  The more Trudy chucked in her oar, the more erratic became her scissor-work and the more nervous the poor bloke became.  And then his face turned even greener as she shook with rage while taking a cut-throat razor to the back of his neck…

Trudy:  You tell him, Liz!

Liz: (STILL OFFSTAGE)  When I get home I want you gone!  You’re a bastard and you’re out!  It’s the last straw this time!

And then there came an eerie silence followed at last by the sound of Liz’s nose being blown, while Trudy reached for the mirror to show the client her handiwork.

Trudy:  Will that do you, love?  Or d’you want a bit more off?

Client:  (EAGER TO ESCAPE)  No!  It’s perfect thank you.

Soon after, Liz returned, tears evaporated, nose blown, lipstick smile re-applied, and ushered me to a chair.  Again this was a point at which I could’ve politely taken my leave, but somehow and ominously I felt duty-bound to do as I was told.  Admittedly I had grave reservations as she fastened the gown around my neck, but admittedly she demonstrated an impressive gear-change of professionalism as she proceeded with the “consultation.”  Admittedly also, my voice trembled a little as I asked for a short back and sides, No2, tapered at the neck.

But the saga didn’t end there, because now the other client had coughed up his eight quid and beat a hasty escape, Trudy was now idle and therefore able to bend Liz’s ear on what precisely the bastard had said in his defence.

Liz:  Denied it all, didn’t he?

Trudy:  What!?  When you’ve had it from the horse’s mouth!?

Liz:  Yea.  Typical of the cowardly bastard.

And so on and so forth, until I plucked up the courage to ask Liz if she’d kindly take a bit  more off the top.  So as Liz duly obliged, she seemed to glean that I was tiring of the performance and finally calmed down.

Liz:  Bet you think it’s a madhouse, this?

Me:  (PERHAPS UNWISELY)  Not at all.  I’ve seen Sweeney Todd and this is a picnic compared to that.

Liz:  You watch a lot of telly then?

Me:  Yes.  It’s my job.

Liz:  So what d’you do?

Me:  (DEFINITELY UNWISELY)  I write soap operas.

Liz:  Never!  Here Trude, he writes soaps!

Trudy:  Yea?  We could give him a story or two!

Me:  You don’t say.

And so on and so forth.  Now while I’ve confessed to reservations and in fact sheer terror of ending up with no hair (or even head) I have to admit that Liz didn’t do a bad job, and I was more than prepared to part with my eight quid.  We’d also had a constructive and intelligent conversation or two about what Liz and Trudy think is wrong with Coronation Street at the moment.

So having been suitably crimped and happily entertained, I offered a two pound tip and as Liz called me “a true gent” I gathered the confidence to offer an opinion of my own.

Me:  True gent, eh?  Unlike your husband.

Liz:  Too right.  I wouldn’t call him a true gent.  Know what I’d call him?

Me:  A bastard?

Liz:  Got it in one.

Me:  I hope you don’t mind me saying, but things aren’t always quite as bad as they seem.

Liz:  They are this time.  He’s gone too far this time.

Me:  (UNABLE TO HELP MYSELF)  May I ask what he did?

Liz:  I don’t even wanna think about it!

And with that the poor girl scuttled into the back, three steps nearer to a breakdown.  I felt terrible, voyeuristic and horribly cruel to be so eager for the story.  And I said as much to Trudy.

Me:  I’m sorry, I think I’ve upset her.  I feel a bit of a bastard now.

Trudy:  Not your fault, love.  You’re not the bastard who shagged his wife’s sister.

“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” – the Story of a School Reunion

If you’re a depressive, like me, there are loads of things you can do about it.  You can drink the blues away, only for them to come back in spades.  You can mope and feel sorry for yourself, only to make the blues turn ‘orange’.  You can feel that life’s not worth living, only to realise you’re not brave enough to take it away.  Or, you can say it is worth living, let’s look on the bright side of it and let’s be pro-active…

You can join a gym and conjure the magic of endorphins.  You can apply for jobs and tell those in a position to engage that you are there and you’re not going away and you’re interesting and yes, engaging.  You can look at things that are so easily taken for granted – your home if you’re lucky to have one, your talents if you’re blessed, and your nearest and dearest if you pause to consider you’re so much richer for having them.

Or, you can have a school reunion…

Since last September a beautiful woman and I (with the help of a few other special people) have been meeting, discussing, debating, planning and staying awake at night thinking about how nice it would be to meet those we schooled with 38 years ago.  How great it would be to get as many of them as possible in the same room, to see how they’ve done, how they now roll, and indeed how they now look.

So allow me to indulge and embroider the back-story, which for me and this story is vital – it provided some salient and profound “station stops” on my travels both geographical and psychological.  Loyal readers will know that last year was spent for the most part living on the Ottermobile, travelling (or often breaking down in) various parts of the UK.  I enjoyed and endured highs (seeing beautiful scenery and meeting wonderful people to write about) and lows (running out of tobacco and being attacked by a couple of hooded knob-heads).  But during that time a beautiful woman contacted me via Linkedin and we ‘chatted’ a while, not least about our school days together, and one day she suggested it might be a good idea to have a reunion.

So I said yes let’s chat more and gave her my number.  Some weeks later I was heading for North Wales and arranged to call in on her in Cheshire, where I took her out to dinner.  As we drank wine and reminisced, I mentioned the time I asked her out at school and she said “no” and that was the story of my life.  But anyway we of course stayed in touch and the issue of reuniting with our peers, ignited some weeks before, was now beginning to burn.

In the months to follow, with the aforementioned “committee” and social media playing their part, the fire burned ever more brightly and, last Saturday night, 60 or so of us convened for the Nantwich & Acton Grammar School Class of 1980 Reunion.  And what a night!

I realise that many of you readers are not NAGS Alumus but I want to describe some of what happened because for me as a writer it was fascinating, for me as a person it was enormously significant.  Of course there was music and food and lots of booze in a room crammed with people, but the room was also crammed with a great deal of laughter, reminiscence, wit and bantering exchanges of story, and above all love.  The buzz was incredible and the  energy amazing, proving that for those of us in our fifties there is still life, still action, and still the ability to behave like kids.  Inevitably some of us might’ve been nervous at first, or even scared, but these negative emotions soon gave way to joie de vive as we danced the night away and finished up linking arms and belting out Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.  And inevitably, as with every party, there had to be someone whose role in life is to be the class idiot or drunken dad-dancer or dubious town-crier…

For me as a writer I prefer to hide behind a script, but for me as a person I felt bound to say a few words, such was my enthusiasm and drunkenness and propensity to make a bloody fool of myself.  But it was all genuine, all meant, and all-important to say what I truly believed.  Yes I probably spoke too long, more than probably repeated myself, quite possibly tried to be funny and more than definitely slurred my words.  But more than definitely they were genuine.

Talking of which, there has been an entertaining and heartfelt aftermath on social media and to illustrate the point I’d like to borrow the words of one of my school-friends, which I think beautifully sum up how I and many other people now feel…

So here we are. It’s Monday night and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Saturday night. I was scared at first, but then overwhelmed to see everyone, then [I felt] euphoria. Mandy, Mark, Kay and Dave…thank you for a fantastic night, you have no idea how much you have touched me. Ruth, I cannot thank you enough…. you found me when I didn’t know I even existed. So many wonderful people to meet again. I’m so sorry if I didn’t get to speak to you all. I regret not spending more time with those that I did. 48 hours on and I have an overwhelming melancholia because for now I can’t see you all, crazy to learn after 38 years that I miss all of you so much. All that I ask is that we see each other sooner rather than later and that life treats you all well until we next meet. There is a big hole in my life that you all fill and I didn’t realise it until now. I wish you all only the best of life and hope to see you again very soon – D.

I am touched by D’s words, and even more touched to glean that in all the aftermath there are ongoing stories and sub-plots in development, stories and sub-plots that began nearly forty years ago and will unravel for years to come.

As I say, school reunions and the descriptions of such are not everyone’s cup of tea, but I needed to post this because it was such a massive deal to me after such a difficult year and it was great to see that so many people looked so well, behaved so well and have clearly done so well, and that being 54 doesn’t mean there’s nothing left in the tank, nothing left to say and nothing left to do.

So thank you for indulging me because it really did me the world of good.  The year has started well, I’ve been pro-active, I’ve joined the gym, my career does look like it’s being rekindled.  But that isn’t all the story, because I have a confession to make, a sub-plot to bring to the surface…

I had an ulterior motive in giving my number to the beautiful woman, because I wanted to ask her out again.  And this time, after 38 years, the answer was “yes”, and that’s the greatest and happiest reunion of all.  Because this is a story not just about nostalgia, or about celebrating and looking on the bright side of life, it’s actually a tender and profound love-story.

Ab-racadabra – The Magic of Endorphins

OK so I’m useless at taking selfies – I managed to cut my head off this one!

I’ve joined the gym.  I needed to get fit, turn some fat into muscle and turn my life around.

The pursuit of endorphins is now a daily routine and I like it.  At my age (just turned 54) you need to look after yourself – I’d been drinking too much plonk and smoking far too many fags.  I can’t claim I’ve gone cold turkey (this is a bad idea) but I can claim I’ve vastly reduced my intake to about four bottles a day and thirty fags.  I’m joking of course, it’s slightly less than that.

Gym etiquette has always intrigued me – there’s barely any eye-contact, just the occasional polite exchange when someone’s waiting for a particular apparatus, or the odd glance at other people’s bodies to see how you compare.  This suits me – I’m not there to make friends I just want to quietly get on with my regime while trying not to fart volubly or follow through on tackling the heavy weights.

But there is a serious point to all this because earlier this month I had an epiphany, where I decided this was going to be an important year, make or break, put up or shut up, the triumph of feast over famine.  I’ve made a number of positive moves in that regard, the gym being one of them.  If I’m lucky enough to get a dream job interview I want to turn up looking good, and if I want to show at the school reunion I want my peers to see that thirty-eight years since school haven’t treated me so badly, and twelve months of living on a van and freezing my tits off haven’t taken their toll.  And most importantly of all, the release of endorphins is a great way of combating depression and I’m already feeling the benefit.  So yes it’s a personal crusade on many levels.

While I say living on a van hadn’t done me too much harm (in fact I look back on that as a brave and story-rich achievement) I can’t deny I’d been suffering a fair bit of back-pain…  that was until I recently discovered Bowen Therapy, for which I wrote the following testimonial:

Remember the time your teacher came up close to explain how to solve a puzzle or whatever?  And you began to understand and you began to relax, so much so that you felt a nice tingling sensation from this intimacy, a pleasant coldness yet a welcome warmth too?  Well, that soothing and non-erotic sensation is like Bowen Therapy, only this helps to solve the puzzle or pain in your body.

I’m not satisfied it’s the best description but it’s certainly how I felt after receiving my first Bowen Treatment.  Like the release of endorphins after a good work-out, Bowen has its own magic and I’d truly recommend it – there’s no pain, no agonising twisting of joints, just a delicate and minimal touch that works wonders.  It’s incredible and I couldn’t speak more highly.

So, the six-pack is there, the old back’s sorted and I’m feeling very positive about my year ahead.  I’m fit and well, feeling twenty years younger, magicking the dog away, in control of my muscles and no longer scared that every time I bend over I’m going to leak a tiny bit of wee that puts an uncomfortable badge on my undies.

It wasn’t on a whim that I joined the gym – I had to put some magic in my life.  It’s all changed – while once I couldn’t walk past a pub, now I can’t walk past a mirror!

Blog the Black Dog

This is “Blog” my black dog, and he’s very well-behaved but oh what a strange world he lives in!

Over the Christmas period I went ‘gongoozling’, as is my wont, along the Shropshire Union Canal, and was reminded of a story my old mate Alfie told me about a man whose job it is to spray dog-shit bright orange.

Apparently, this is a problem down the cut that badly needs addressing.  So along goes your man with his spray-paint and with a deft squirt he turns the brown piles into luminous orange in order to shame the owner who allows his canine to dump inconsiderately where human foot dares to tread.

Alfie will have written at length and brilliantly about this I’m sure, but I borrow it here to illustrate a couple of points, which are a) the world in 2018 is more bonkers than ever, and b) I’ve finally decided after much deliberation that I won’t be getting a dog… or at least a real one.

I’ve recorded my doggy dilemma in previous posts but will add here that the issue of faeces is a major factor in my ultimate decision.  I’ve looked after my friends’ dogs and seen with my own eyes the massive volume of dung the buggers produce and expect a man and his shovel to follow in their malodorous wake.  Given that there’s a man who goes a stage further by painting it orange, I ponder that if I’d done the same, how would my friends feel on returning from holiday to find their considerable garden glowing not with chrysanthemums or primula but with several lines of shit that glowed in the dark like an airport runway?

But returning to the towpath, Alfie explained he’d asked the poo-painter for provenance of his toil and he’d staunchly defended the practice, insisting it’d shamed the owners and he’d seen a 50% reduction in offending turds.

All very well I suppose, but I wonder if an even better deterrent would be to spray the dog-handler himself so every time we ramblers see a man glowing bright orange we could denounce him as the careless sod who lets his dog shit everywhere and we hope he now “faeces up” to his environmental responsibility.

Furthermore, I feel a little sorry for the dogs returning to the scene of their crime and staring in canine bafflement at what’s been produced and wondering what the hell they’ve been fed on!  Cheesy Wotsits could possibly spring to mind if dogs know what Cheesy Wotsits are.  I related this tale to Mandy and a couple of friends at a recent soiree to discuss our imminent school reunion (which I’ll undoubtedly blog about soon) and they were agape, wanting to know how long the poo-painter had been in the job.  “I’m not certain,” I said, “but I think this is his turd year.”

But enough of this nonsense.  I only wanted to say a few words today to repeat a heartfelt message to my readers, all of whom are important to me, that I will continue to blog.  This is partly because I enjoy it so much – the venting of one’s spleen is often an effective way of banishing the dog – and partly because many of you have said how much you’ve missed these pontificating scribblings.  In other words it’s become not just a literary crusade for or against all the things I see in the world, but a response to encouraging noises off.

Yours until the next point of interest or utter bonkersness,

The Otter

Readers’ Digest

Dear reader

I wasn’t going to blog any more but due to popular demand (thank you Bob in Middlesex) I plan to be back very soon.  It’ll be a new angle, not so much geographical travel as a journey through my varied life and the way I see it.

So I’ll see you soon and hopefully you’ll enjoy digesting what I’ll have to say.

Very best and belated new year wishes,

Mark x

 

Season’s Greetings

Just a very simple message to the very many people who’ve been reading this over the past six months or so.  I give huge thanks for that, and even more for those who’ve been so kind to me in difficult times…

To those who made my birthday so special yesterday, in various ways, I send my love.

To those who’ve kindly offered shelter, you’ll all live long in my heart.

To the hordes who’ve been so warm and encouraging, you’re brilliant.

To all of you I offer my deepest gratitude and best wishes for Christmas.  Let’s hope the world will be a better place in 2018… if there were more people like you it undoubtedly would be.

With love, Mark x

Shelter

On this particularly cold morning recently I left the Ottermobile and was sitting at the bus stop, where I was joined by a lady wearing a woolly hat and a moustache.  She said I looked “starved to death” and I couldn’t deny it.  She then asked what I was doing and I replied, without irony, that I was waiting for a bus.  I couldn’t deny that either.  Nor could I deny that the pie I was eating contained pork.  The only truth I withheld is that it was stolen.

I was off to sign on.  It’s a fortnightly treat I dread, and even more so nowadays when they’re asking me to broaden my jobsearch and attend courses such as How to Write a CV.  I knew these days would come.  And I knew the days would come when I’d be applying for jobs not in my usual field.  Which is why I haven’t been blogging, because applying for a job is a full-time job.

But on a rare day off from applying for jobs and being turned down and learning how to write a CV, I thought I’d turn to this diary and write a little something there.

I’ve received quite a number of messages asking where I’ve been and if I’m OK.  The vast majority of these are from people who’re genuinely concerned, as opposed to the people wishing to knit at the guillotine.  I’m aware that my recent posts have been less than optimistic, and some caring readers have said I’ve moved them to tears so I should reassure them that despite all the hardship I’m doing alright.  As I said last time, I’m happy and I know it and I really want to show it.

I suppose in a way it’s like a soap opera, where I provide a “hook” that makes my readers desperate to know what happens next.  It’s vitally important that we keep our audience guessing and of course wanting to tune into the next episode, so the “hook” is something that makes soap opera story writers toss and turn at night.  I guess my “hook” is brilliant in that my readers wanted to know whether I survived the recent chill.

Well I did, which to some would be “false jeopardy”.  “False jeopardy”, another soap term, means that we have a character metaphorically dangling from a clifftop (hence the term “cliffhanger” which has now become the “hook”) at the end of an episode, then starting the next episode with his or her immediate rescue.  To “pay this off” so soon would be “false jeopardy” and therefore a let-down to the audience who prefer to see him or her suffer a little longer, or indeed if they don’t care at all, fall to his or her violent death.

The problem with this, I always argued, is that all dramatic jeopardy is false because it’s by definition a drama, a fiction, an episode of make-believe.  In other words, nobody truly believes it’s real, what they care about most is that it’s entertaining and they wouldn’t want story teams to toss and turn at night because they know damned well it’s all false anyway, jeopardy or otherwise.

Real life, of course, isn’t make-believe.  But it does provide all its characters with problems to overcome, wrongs to right and lives to save.  I recently needed saving and, thankfully, my saviour or saviours arrived and gave me shelter.  As I said before, most of my audience will be delighted and relieved to hear this, while others might grumble that it was all “false jeopardy.”  They’d much rather I’d perished because that’s a better story over which to knit a Christmas jumper or a woolly hat.

Anyway, to those who really do care I owe a massive thanks, and I will be writing a heartfelt tribute to them in my final post in the next few days, which is something I want to take my time over because I want to get it right.  I say final because the Ottermobile has been abandoned and it would therefore be “false” to call these writings Adventures from the Ottermobile.

Perversely I think it’s a pity because I’ve enjoyed writing this stuff; I’ve tried to be funny, entertaining, and sometimes I know it’s been silly but it’s always been the truth.  And I always have to write, because that’s what I do, or maybe I’ll get the hang of doing a CV and bag a job in a warehouse instead.  Who knows what’s around the corner?  That’s our “hook”.

But for the sake of my life I should call it a day, hold a gloved hand up and confess that 250 days on a van is quite enough and it’s time to look to my saviours and thaw my frozen bones.  Then next time I’m in the bus shelter and I meet the woman in the woolly hat and moustache, I’ll hopefully tell her I’m going to be OK.

“Suicide” – a Story of Two Worlds Colliding

The library is full of stories but not just in the books.  While I’m having a warm or doing the crossword or writing, I’m also listening.  Today there was a toddlers’ group singing songs like “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.”  Nearer to me, however, there were two men in their sixties whispering hellos.

“How are you?” asked the first.

“Not so good,” said the second, “my Grandson took his own life yesterday.”

The first man said nothing, not because he was being rude but because, though there were millions on the shelves around him, he couldn’t find the right words.

“24,” added the second man.

That’s all I heard, a tragic and tear-jerking blurb that as a writer got me wanting the rest of the story but as a human-being wanting to know what’s wrong with this world the little singing children will grow up with.

As they continued to warble “If you’re happy” I wondered what drove the 24-year-old to suicide, what made a man with the years stretching out in front of him end his days?  What can be done about this awful state of affairs where the suicide rate seemingly continues to rise?  If you read the Office of National Statistics it’s a very grim tale in this regard.  And finally it got me asking grave questions of myself: though I sometimes think I have nothing to live for, is my life really so bad?  And if it isn’t, should I be ashamed of myself for being depressed and writing such downbeat prose over the past six months?

So in sparing a thought and lighting a candle for this young man I never knew and his grieving family I will never know, I should also be grateful for the gifts I do have and the thing I do know; that despite it all I am still happy.  I know it, and I would really like to show it.

 

Tales of the Riverbank

While the Ottermobile’s been static I’ve been doing a lot of walking, which is supposed to clear the mind.

I’ve rambled along miles of the Shropshire Union Canal and many more of the River Weaver, and still haven’t seen an otter.  I’ve also failed to meet my old friend Alfie, who I hear has been worried about me and hasn’t been able to get hold of me.  He and I used to trek for miles, or fish, on canals and rivers back in the good old days and I know he still likes to take a constitutional for leisure.

My walks are for leisure too, but they’re also to fill the time for I am now the archetypal tramp.  If I’m not seen tramping along the waterways or huddled in a corner of the library for a warm and a nap, I’m to be seen on a bench in the town square, watching the world go by or writing or pretending to do a crossword I’ve already done.

It’s hard not to feel self-conscious at times because though I don’t (I think) look like a vagrant, if I meet someone’s eye it feels like they’re judging me; they see a man on his own whiling away his day, a man with nothing to do, an “idle spectator” of the world.

But that’s not true.  My mind isn’t empty at all, it’s always abuzz with ideas, many of them good ones.  It’s brimming with story and character, it’s still searching for new words and raring to put them down lest someone should be impressed enough to dare to give the author a job.

Talking of new words, one of the friends I made on the road, Trevor, offered me this:

Gongoozle – (v) to idly spectate, especially canal boats and canal activities.

I suppose that given the amount of time I’ve spent on the canals of late, and the miles I’ve covered and the many boats I’ve seen, I am your tramp and gongoozler.  Yet as I say, I don’t idly spectate, I talk as well, I introduce myself to those I encounter, in the search for new friends and more importantly a story.

The other day I came across Harry, a 70-year-old who calls himself a boater.  Hailing from Manchester, he retired from the police force fifteen years ago following the death of his wife.  He sold his house, bought a barge and has lived on the cut ever since, meandering from Audlem to Wrenbury and beyond and back, loving the wildlife and the back of beyond.  He has the biggest garden in England, because his garden is England.  He likes to visit real ale pubs and favours The Wickstead for its goat curry.  He knows everything there is to know about CAMRA pubs and everything there is to know about the ales they have on tap.  Most important of all, his time will run out before his money.

He asked me what I do and I said I’m very similar – I enjoy the freedom of tramping, I deeply love the back of beyond and I have taken very much to gongoozling.  I have often wondered how different life would’ve been had I chosen a clapped-out boat rather than a clapped-out van.  Knowing my luck it would’ve probably sunk.  But unlike him, my money ran out before my life.

“Do you like a pint?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes,” I said.

“You look like you do,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Next time I’m in this neck of the woods I’ll buy you one,” he promised.

“Thanks,” I said again, swapping numbers.  Harry the boater in his green beret keeping the warmth in his head because he’s as bald as the coots that bob in his wake.

And as he chugged away it felt good to make a new friend.  It also felt good to know that Harry isn’t lonely.  I asked what he’ll do for Christmas and he said he’ll be happy to celebrate it by himself – he’ll go to church, he’ll have all the trimmings and he’ll get quietly pissed.

“And will you stay warm?” I asked.

“Oh aye,” he said with a mischievous grin, ” I’ll have me log-burner going and me chestnuts well and truly roasted.”

The Cup of Human Kindness

Today is a very significant day in personal terms which will remain private, but also in the following terms which won’t… For the first time in my life I begged, or at least accepted a charitable cup of coffee, on the grounds of being homeless.

The Nantwich Bookshop and Coffee Lounge has a sign outside saying an anonymous charity has made it possible for one to have a free coffee if one is deserving or needy.  So I went inside to do some writing and ordered an Americano.  When this was down and dried on the inside of the cup, I realised it was time either to pay up and leave or order another cup.

I chose the latter (not the latte) and asked the waitress for replenishment, while plucking up the courage to say the words “I’m homeless.”

It’s tremendously difficult to explain how that felt, but I’ll attempt to do so as honestly as possible, with as much dignity as possible, and as little pathos as possible.

It felt shameful, embarrassing, terrifying and humbling.

The shame is probably obvious for an educated man who not too long ago had a high-up job in TV.

The embarrassment is inevitable, probably for the same reason but also lest someone I knew could be within earshot and think how the mighty fall.

The terror was palpable lest the waitress weighed me up and questioned the validity of my claim – see I think I don’t look homeless, but then again what is a homeless person supposed to look like?  Unwashed?  Scruffy?  Drunk?  I’m none of those things, because though I’m no fixed abode I still have standards which I’ll never let slip.  I suppose many homeless people feel the same.

And finally it was humbling because the lady unquestioningly accepted my plea and proceeded to show great kindness, understanding and respect in quietly waiving the cost of not just the first cup of coffee but also the second.  It warmed my soul and fixed my heart as I explained as a disclaimer that I do have money owed to me but right now I’ve nothing, and I would return as soon as I was able to put some money over the counter or donate to the charitable cause.  She said there was no need, so I left the shop in tears.

Though this was potentially one of the most humiliating moments of my life, the simple act of human kindness made it one of the happiest and most memorable.