Tales of the Riverbank

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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.”

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“The Trial” – a festive story of desperation and resilience

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Ho ho ho!

Franz Kafka wrote The Trial in 1914 and it was published posthumously in 1925.  For those unfamiliar, it’s about a man arrested for some crime he isn’t aware of and prosecuted by some remote and inaccessible system he doesn’t know of.  My story won’t be as ground-breakingly, heart-breakingly and darkly brilliant, but I cite it because it demonstrates how wonderfully portentous writers like Kafka were, and how horribly accurate were my own premonitions earlier this year about the lives of those just about managing.

My story is about a character called Mike – yes let’s call him that because that’s what someone called him.  For Mike, life is one long trial, and here I’ll tell his tale with some deliberation and respect for his feelings, because he writes a blog and has realised a large percentage of his readers seem to be lawyers, a fact which gives him pleasure and paranoia in equal measure.

***

“Mike is neither sure of the crime he might’ve committed nor why his life has turned upside-down, but he senses deep down that he must’ve erred in some wicked way for it to turn out like this, where life is just one bad thing after another, one trial, one tribulation, after another.  He searches his soul and recalls stealing a pork pie from Tesco when he was seven, and more recently signing an exemption from prescription charges because he was broke and needed anti-depressants, and he wonders if these are the reasons for his downfall and prosecution.  But in his defence and in more cheerful moments he sees himself as no saint nevertheless a decent, caring and honest man…

At this moment in time he’s claiming Jobseekers’ Allowance and has been dutifully and assiduously obeying the rules by applying – but not usually getting – jobs.  Then a number of weeks ago there was a miracle, when he was offered a day’s work.  The company who offered him the work will be nameless (given the legally eagle eyes are on Mike’s blog) but he gratefully accepted its contractual terms.  Honest to the last, he declared this miracle to the Jobseekers people knowing that legally they would dock his Allowance and legally he was bound to accept.  He did this because he is honest and he did this because he believed that while a day’s work wasn’t much, it might beget more work and soon he wouldn’t have to rely on the State and he could pay his taxes.  He also believed in good faith that a fair day’s work would beget a fair day’s pay come the end of the month.

But sometimes mortals like Mike are up against a system he can’t control, can’t challenge and can’t even understand.  And that’s why today he learned his invoice hasn’t for some reason gone through the system and he won’t be paid till the end of December.  Now some would argue that at least Mike will, eventually, be paid, but others would surely wonder how this can happen, how this can happen to a man like Mike who’s desperate and who won’t be receiving his Jobseekers Allowance because he’s been honest and will therefore have to go a whole month, the month where Christmas happens to fall, with nothing.  And there’s seemingly nothing he can do about it.

Again, because he fears the legal eagles are circling, Mike is nervous of having his story told, but decides to let me tell it because he’s nothing to lose and, after all, he’s only telling the truth.  And furthermore he’s feeling not a little paranoid and disappointed (it’s worth adding) that the company is one for which he’s spilled blood, sweat and tears over his working life.  So perhaps one could forgive his paranoia that somebody somewhere within this remote and inaccessible system is testing his limits.

One thing Mike does have is someone he loves.  She talks to him often about life and how it tries us.  He talks to her about depression and how it tries him, how he feels like an elastic band that’s being stretched, how he resists the tension but how sometimes, because he knows something about physics and even more about human feelings, he fears he’s going to snap.  In plain fact an elastic band, like a human being, can only take so much.

Mike knows she and others are there to love and support him, and he also recognises there are people much worse off – people who have nobody, people who live under arches, people who don’t even have a decent sleeping bag, a vehicle, a metal roof over their heads.  He knows it’s going to be harder for them this winter, and understands why they’ll resort to alcohol, drugs and crime.  He understands this because he knows they’ll become desperate.  And he now understands that being honest doesn’t necessarily pay, in fact it doesn’t appear to pay at all.  So what’s the point in avoiding alcohol, drugs and crime?  Why not let alcohol or drugs numb the pain?  Why not pinch a pork pie if you’re starving?  It’s the unlawful law of the homeless and it’s how they’re supposed to behave.

Mike’s done some research on the homeless problem.  He’s read a story about a man who was up for some petty crime and begged to be sent to prison so he’d have warmth and a roof over his head.  But the judge felt that would be too easy for him, so presided that more time on the streets was punishment more befitting; better to have the streets full of homeless people who can be moved on, than prisons bursting their seams with criminals.

And he’s read in the paper recently about people on Universal Credit who’re forced to live on cornflakes and tell their kids there’ll be no Christmas presents this year.  With this in mind, Mike met his beautiful daughter for a coffee and she was paying.  He told her there would be gifts for his grandchildren but they wouldn’t be much.  For that he was banking on the pay that was due for his honest days’ work.  But now, with today’s news upper in his mind, he’s going to have to tell her it will have to wait until the new year.  And it will break his heart.”

***

So that’s the story.  When I interviewed Mike he was at first reticent, scared even, to divulge.  But this was more than paranoia about the legal eagles reading his words – it was about dignity.  He doesn’t feel ashamed of his story and he certainly doesn’t want pity.  Why should he, he says, ask for pity from others when he refuses to pity himself?  All he wants, after some deliberation, is to tell his story, get things off his chest, tell it like it is and that will be that.

Because while Mike might be made of elastic he’s not one easy to snap.  With dignity he’ll go on displaying innate magnanimity, he’ll go on resisting the tension, he’ll go on being resilient, and he’ll go on believing that while he can’t fight the system and can’t understand why this has happened to him, he’ll get over this famine and enjoy any feast that’s put in front of him, come Christmas and beyond.  And yes, ho ho ho, he’ll manage, somehow, to laugh in the face of adversity.

Franz Kafka, arguably, might not have been so forthcoming with happy endings.

Fallon Hard Times

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Oh my God there are two of her!

Poor Michael Fallon, having to resign because of his alleged impropriety.  I say poor, because while I don’t condone his alleged behaviour, he’ll have a very uncertain future, which is something this writer knows a lot about…

Having become unemployed, he’ll be forced out of his posh mansion and use the last of his savings either to find sheltered housing or buy a campervan.  To cover the ignominy of his fall from grace, he’ll say it’s a project and he’ll write about his experiences travelling the land and meeting interesting folk, and he’ll do this until one of three eventualities eventually happen: 1) his van could break down, 2) he could break down, or 3) all his money will run out and he’ll be forced to park up on a friend’s drive and stay put, shitting in a bucket and freezing his balls off.

If he’s lucky he’ll have lots of family and friends who’re kind enough to help, but whether or not this is the case he’ll be forced to apply for Jobseeker’s Allowance.  Eventually he’ll get his £74 a week, which is very difficult but not impossible to “Just About Manage” on.  But then, he’ll realise that the insurance on his campervan (£92 a month) will mean on average he’ll be living on £4 a day.  If he smokes, he’ll be forced to give up, if he drinks, he’ll be forced to give that up too.

With no affordable vices (and having given up the alleged vice of groping women’s knees at the dinner table) he’ll become very miserable and, after applying for several jobs in his line and receiving no response, then applying for crap jobs for which he’s overqualified and told he’s been unsuccessful because he’s overqualified, his misery will be exacerbated.  Then, he might learn that his former boss, our Theresa and Christ I do hope there’s only one of her, plans to make it nigh on impossible for people like Michael to qualify for benefits.

The poor man will then face a number of options including: 1) to sell his van and numb the pain with crack, 2) to resort to living on the streets, and 3) to jump off the nearest cliff…

Now as Michael readily admits, he’s erred in the past, but hey, haven’t we all?  So does he really deserve to be punished in the way I’ve described?  Some will say yes he deserves to have his balls frozen off while others will opine that everybody deserves a second chance.

Frankly I think he deserves to have his balls frozen off, not just because he’s an alleged groper but because he’s a fucking Tory.  But then again I might be betraying my naivety here.  For all I know, he might be a very rich man who doesn’t need to buy a clapped-out campervan to put a roof over his head, who doesn’t need to apply for crap jobs for which he’s overqualified, and who doesn’t need to go round the country shitting in a bucket and trying to convince everyone he’s not so bad after all.

“Television’s Hal Owen” – A Grave Tale from a Homeless Writer

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Alas, poor Yorick…

I think I got out of the wrong side of my sleeping bag this morning because this court jester is feeling pretty angry.  However, as it’s Halloween let’s channel that anger and turn it into mirth in writing an account of the horror of depression and homelessness.

In previous diary entries I’ve recorded my thoughts on how employers don’t get depression (to clarify, that means they don’t understand it rather than suffer from it) and to revisit and illustrate that theme I’d like to tell a real-life story…

… Some time ago I had a boss whom I’ll call Hal Owen.  How best to describe him?  Let’s say he was so narcissistic he probably invented the selfie, and so far up his own arse he could take a photo of his bowel.

Anyway I’d been down with the dog and needed time off, a lengthy spell to boot, and my employers were admittedly pretty understanding in then allowing me a phased return to work.  We were in a story conference discussing some tale about frozen pipes that caused a house to flood, and to draw from experience (which is what writers should do) I described a visit to a restaurant whose pipes had burst, meaning the pumps couldn’t serve beer and the bain maries were dry.  To flesh out the story I explained that I’d been so down that my friends had taken me out for a meal to cheer me up.

“Bloody hell!” said Hal, “he’s supposed to be off sick and he’s out gallivanting!”

“Not gallivanting,” I countered, “eating.”

That’s what I said, but what I wanted to say was “Even those with mental illness need to eat, you ignorant, vainglorious prick.”

What stopped me from saying it?  Politeness?  Intelligence?  Job preservation?  Probably a bit of all three, but if it was job preservation I regret not saying it, because in the end I lost my job anyway so it wouldn’t really have made a difference.

… It’s memories like this that make me either boiling with anger or send me into paroxysms of laughter, because the sickest joke of all is that Hal is still working, costing the company tens if not hundreds of thousands of pounds a year, sitting at his warm desk and going home to his nice cosy house to don his carpet slippers, put his feet up and chuckle to himself at how easy is his life.

In comparison, I’m sleeping in a mummy bag, waking up for a pee at 3am and dithering uncontrollably, living on £4 a day and waiting for the phone not to ring in answer to applications for jobs I’m over-qualified to do, which I could do with my eyes closed yet those in power shut their ears to my pleas, and my home is a tin can called the Ottermobile which can’t be mobile at all because it needs unaffordable diesel to make its wheels turn round.

I repeat that this will induce either fury or laughter, so because I’m naturally more inclined to the latter, I am not asking for sympathy, I tell the story merely to illustrate a point.  But more importantly on a wider scale, my aim is to posit the lack of awareness that certain persons like Hal Owen in high-up places demonstrate, yet those same people like Hal Owen are prospering merrily and blissfully.  How do they do it?  How do they get there?  Well for a kick-off it’s not always about talent or experience, it’s often pure luck, or that their young faces fit, or that they have an innately impressive art and aptitude for networking.

It pains me at times to see this happening, where those untroubled by talent get on whereas others who’re brimming with it, don’t.  A few nights ago a party of us travelled to North Wales to watch a production of The Wyrd Sisters, a vibrant, witty and brilliant story from the Pratchett muse, vibrantly, wittily and brilliantly directed by an old friend of mine called Martin, who has more ‘life experience’ and more talent in his little finger than a good many I’ve worked with down the years have in their entire bodies.  Unlike me, Martin isn’t bitter, but unlike me, he’s housed and gainfully-employed elsewhere.  But I mention him only because if I had the power to do so I’d hire people like him in my line of work and replace some of the mulch that’s unquestioningly allowed to blow along the windy corridors of power.

In those unnecessarily long, arduous and probably illegal days of dreaming up stories for the nation’s favourite soap for example, people like Hal might offer very little guidance, opinion, experience or even ideas for story and say “Pick the bones out of that,” and expect people like me to weave their magic and turn paucity of idea into rich story pickings for the audience.  Like making a silk purse out of a pig’s ear or, as I prefer to say, turning a pile of shit into the greatest story ever told.  Forgive my own vaingloriousness here, but that very often happened for me because I had magic to weave.  And I still have that magic – while my belly might be empty of food, it’s a fiery cauldron of ideas that bubble and gurgle and fuel my soul.

So to be true to my loved-ones who urge me to see the positives, and to be bent on rekindling the fire beneath the cauldron, I will end this tale with an upbeat message:  as long as he has his talent and self-belief, a writer won’t be homeless for ever.  His career might be dead but it will rise from the other side and laugh like a court jester in the face of ignorance.  Pick the bones out of that, Hal.

Keeping Warm this Winter (“For here am I sitting in my tin can…”)

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As the temperature plummeted, last night was the most uncomfortable yet aboard the Ottermobile.  I woke up with icicles hanging from my nose and more than probably elsewhere too.  I’m not one to moan about the weather but it was fucking freezing and I realised it could be time for sleeping bag No2 (pictured above).

I paid a lot of money for this and it’s been stowed unslept-in beneath my passenger seat along with my tools, my gun and my hopes and dreams.  The other bag, which cost about twenty quid from Argos, has served me well through the summer, but last night I noted that I could see through it; just a tissue-thin sheet of cotton between me and my leaky roof.

So as I woke at 4am to pee (and snap off the icicles) I started pondering the imminent winter months and what it’ll be like living them in my tin can.  And shuddered.

Then later in the morning my phone rang; it was a London number and I hoped it’d be work in the offing, but I could hear the background hubbub and quickly clocked that it was a call-centre.

“Good morning am I speaking to Mr Bickerstaffe and how are you today sir?”

“Cold,” I said, bluntly.

“My name’s Cindy (let’s call her that) from Acme Energy (let’s call it that) and I’m calling with an offer to reduce your energy bills.”

“Ah,” I said, “I should tell you that I’m homeless so if it’s offers to reduce my energy bills I shouldn’t waste your time.”

“No problem,” she replied, “Goodbye.”

Now really I should’ve left it at that, but found myself saying “Wait a minute, don’t hang up!  What do you mean “no problem”?  I consider homelessness to be a massive problem, especially as I’m the one freezing his cock off in a van!”

But she’d gone.  Again I should’ve left it there, but it put me in a bad mood as I thought of her in a warm office and going home to a nice fish n chip supper beside the fire.  And shuddered.

Tonight I’m heading south to Stoke (if the Ottermobile will make it) where I’ll meet my son, some old mates and watch the game tomorrow.  It’ll be my first visit to the Bet365 Stadium for three years and I’m looking forward to it, courtesy of my good pal Rog Malkin who’s helping me out with a couple of freebie tickets.  Tomorrow night will be the 150th of my nomadic project and worthy of celebration, or put another way, commiseration.

But it’ll be nice to spend it in a place I love on the day of a Stoke victory, whatever the weather and whether it’s cold or not.

In the coming days I’ll be looking after my friend Gary’s dogs and teaching them new tricks, and I’ll get in the garden doing odd jobs in order to repay his kindness while he and his wife Janet are away.  It’s a big house and a considerable plot the likes of which I dream of, and for a week I’ll be laird.  I’ll still sleep in the tin can though, so they can rest in the sunshine assured that I won’t be venturing upstairs and rooting through their knicker drawers.

This reminds me of an electrician I used to know who confessed that when alone in a house this was his thing.  I’d asked him to have a look at wiring my loft so I could light it and board it out.  But when he told me his pernicious tale I decided I’d risk electrocution and do the job myself.  And shuddered.

No, I’ll be sleeping on the Ottermobile inside my special expensive bag, thinking of James and other homeless folk I’ve met on my travels, who’re less fortunate even than me.  And I’ll be hoping the winter isn’t too inclement or I can find some work to take me off the streets.

Until that day it’s Jobseekers’ Allowance and the kindness of friends and loved-ones and the odd few quid I can make on the side.  To that end I’ll wrap this post up with two questions: 1) when will someone make an offer for my long-lost priceless Lowry painting?  And 2) is there a market for used sleeping bags on Ebay?

The Penalty of Homelessness, Unemployment & Depression

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Yes I hold my hands up it’s a very downbeat title for a post, but I’m afraid it perfectly summarises my mood.  So to begin on a lighter note, I had several kind and positive missives following yesterday’s entry, most of which encouraged me to go against judgement and get myself a canine companion.

But what I didn’t mention in my peroration of the subject was that I’m finding it increasingly difficult to look after myself let alone feed, walk, train and love a dog.

A case in point happened recently when I travelled to Salford Quays to try and drum up some work and stealth-camp in wealthy environs.  My old friend Kim had been saving post that’s still being delivered to my apartment, which I was forced to give up in March.  Among the shit-brown envelopes were two from the NHS, charging me a penalty totalling circa £130 for signing a prescription exemption without due authorisation.

Now let me make it clear that I am guilty as charged because though I was homeless at the time, I was not officially unemployed as I was not then claiming benefit, but only because I’d naively assumed that I wouldn’t be eligible without a fixed abode.  In mitigation, however, and I hope, I was penniless and depressed and badly needed medication.  So what was I to do?  Well to be frank it was get the meds or cower to the black dog.  So I went for the former.

These were dark and ‘orange’ days I’m referring to (and for which I send a bouquet of barbed wire to the dog and some humans by way of thanks) whereas latterly I’d been in a much better place, mentally if not financially.  But then to get this penalty notice it popped the bubble in my spirit-level.

Anyway what can you do?  Well you can write to the creditors and argue your case for the defence.  A good idea except there isn’t an address on the letter, only a number to call or an online form to complete.  With no credit on my mobile, I opted for the online service on which I wrote a lengthy plea…

While pleading guilty to the crime, I testified that I wasn’t at the time and am no longer at the address in Salford Quays, in fact I don’t have an address at all as I am living in my Ottermobile.  Furthermore, at the time of the criminal activity I was desperately depressed and unable to pay the price of a prescription.  It’s unhelpful, I suggested, to receive letters like the above and I would’ve hoped that the medication cited on the prescription might give a signal that all was not well with the defendant.  Admittedly my case is probably buried deep within a computerised system and it would be naive to assume each case is investigated to its fullest, but as I pointed out in my defence, it might not be the best way forward to pursue damages incurred as it’s unlikely I’d be in a position to cough up.

Even further to that, in asking them not to write to the given address in future, I wondered where and how they could find me to take the matter further eg. litigation?  I hereby confess to chuckling ironically at the notion of their manhunt and what might happen if my case for the defence meets with negativity.  Will they send me to prison?  Well, at least I’d have a home, a roof over my head, and they’d know precisely where to send their letters.  Or will they send in the bailiffs?

Well, that makes me chuckle too, because there more than likely isn’t 130 quid’s worth of chattels onboard the Ottermobile to cover my debt to society.  I guess they could take my broken TV, my walking boots and my kitchenware.  If they did, I truly and absolutely wouldn’t have a pot to piss in.

The Black Dog

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I was thinking of getting a dog.  This news will come as a shock to many of my friends but to a few it’ll be welcome because they’ve suggested a dog would be company during lonely nights on the Ottermobile.

In the past I’ve written disparagingly on this subject but I think I’ve been clear that it’s dog-owners rather than dogs that get my goat.  So why did I suddenly feel I wanted one?  Because of loneliness?  For company and love?  Because it could chase the black dog away?  I could teach it tricks?  I could train it to go and fetch my newspaper?  Or use it as a prop for the purposes of begging?  All those things perhaps, but it’s a fact that on my travels I’ve met many dogs and they’ve seemed to take a shine to me.

Take Rachel and her little pooch in Filey, which had me happily playing “fetch” for ages and wouldn’t let me rest.  And Gary and Janet’s three mutts in Nantwich, which I’ve become very fond of.  In fact, they go on holiday later this month (Gary and Janet not the dogs) and I’ve offered to look after things in their absence to repay their kindness, and I’m determined to teach them new tricks (the dogs not Gary and Janet).

So I was pondering the pros and cons, the arguments for getting a dog which are many, and the arguments against.  I guess it’s the same with dogs as it is with people.  I’ve met hundreds of people on my journey so far, a great percentage of them very nice, decent, kind, civil and clean.  But there have been some who are complete shits, or not nice, decent, kind, civil or indeed clean.

I’ll provide an example to illustrate my point:  At a campervan park near Alnwick, Northumberland, a fellow campervanner came for a chat.  It was early in the morning and I was pre-shit, shave and shower.  Now I don’t mind being sociable at all, I’m a people-person, but I’d rather be a people-person when I’ve woken up properly and had a decent bowel-movement and a wash.  This man, called Fred, was clearly of the opposite point-of-view, being unshaven, unwashed and bearing morsels of his breakfast in the corner of his mouth.

He asked how long I was staying and I explained I was moving on (once I’d washed) because I actually live on the van and I was heading north to Scotland if the van could make it there.  Suitably impressed, he explained he was just there for two nights with his missus and their dog then would return home to Yarm.

So impressed was he with my story that he wished he could do the same; kick the rat-race into touch and take to the road.  He was a nice enough fella I suppose was Fred, but he was not one to obey the laws of body-space and all the time he spoke he kept spitting, and tiny droplets of spittle kept hitting my face.  Also, there remained the morsel of breakfast which was working its way centre-stage on his lips, where it dangled for it’s dear life like some tiny man on a clifftop.

In my work as a storyteller and a “soap opera expert” I’ve often talked about cliffhangers, and this was a real-life one where I (the audience) was waiting to see what happened to the tiny morsel of breakfast.  This would’ve been fine in the dramatic sense, but for me it was all rather unsettling because I feared that when this thing lost its fight for life it would fly off the lippy clifftop and land on my face with the rest of his spittle.

Typical of my luck, that’s exactly what happened and I was forced to endure the rest of the interminable conversation without wiping it off hence drawing attention to it.  A similar thing had happened back in Redcar where a fellow-homeless campervanner had a bogey hanging off his nose and it eventually fell perilously close to my sandwiches.  Well this was an even worse horror as I traumatised myself over whether to tell my audience something was amiss.

So as this morsel of breakfast rested on my lip after leaving his (a kind of quasi-homosexual kiss) I frankly felt wretched and filthy.  And when at last he returned to his van he was greeted by his smiling wife and gleeful dog, which jumped up at him… and licked his face.

I could forgive dog-lovers like Gary and Janet for thinking me shallow, but I couldn’t help feeling that if Fred’s dog was apt to lick his face, he’d already done so that morning, the thought of which made me feel doubly wretched and filthy.  And when I think back to this, I realise that on the whole I’m not really a doggy person and the reasons against getting a dog just about tip the balance.  So in which case I should stick to my guns, stay dog-less and rely on a human-being for warmth, obedience, company and unconditional love.