So I’ve moved central. I’ve been in …

hester1

10:56:21 am on April 5, 2008 | # |
Tags: Sniff it n see

So I’ve moved central. I’ve been in SE1 a couple of months now, living in Bermond-on-sea and, though I’m a Londoner born ‘n’ bred (Penge -SE20-…yes it’s a place not a swear word), I’ve never lived so close to father Thames and the famous old things.
I’m right near Tower Bridge and the Tower of London, my heart still skips a beat every time I walk past that place. The things that have gone down within those (by 21st century standards diminutive looking) walls. I often think about Queen Liz (the original), my ginger idol; Walter Raleigh and other prisoners; the centuries of secrets and lies and the decisions taken to preserve or destroy human lives. After all of this drama there’s me, hovering around the walls because the tour’s too expensive, trying to digest a prawn mayo sarnie that won’t stop repeating on me. The other thing that I’ve noticed is the daily encounter I have with my fellow citizens who are rough sleeping and begging. I grew up expecting to see people begging in the tourist hot spots when I ‘go up town’. Now that I live in town I am noticing these people properly again for the first time. I walk the South Bank almost every day, I see the same people, they’ve become individuals as opposed to the urban faceless, anonymity of the hundreds of other walkers/tourists/joggers I pass. I never give my change, my reason is that by giving a person small amounts of money or food all you are ever doing is sustaining them in their current situation. My motive… honestly….probably has more to do with wanting to have enough change for that prawn mayo sandwich. Despite the fact that I can use my reasoning as an excuse to be miserly I do believe that it’s right, so, what do I do? Set up a conscience appeasing standing order to an attractively branded charity? Is it ok to buy one’s peace of mind? We all do it to an extent (fair-trade chocolate is less fattening). So I set myself a challenge, once a fortnight (initially I was going for weekly but it was unrealistic) I’m going to have a chat and maybe some tea with someone who is begging (and it doesn’t count if I have a chat with one of those disgracefully trendy charity reps who accost you on the street for ten pounds a month – sorry that was a little below the belt). I’m making room of course for the possibility that my chosen individual might not want to talk to me, I have had plenty of experience being told to f-off in the classroom so I plan not to be too put off by this eventuality. When I was volunteering in a slightly dodgy young men’s night-shelter in Oval, some of the boys who were begging used to come back in the evening destroyed by the fact that they’d spent the entire day being wilfully ignored. It took them at least ten minutes to realise I was speaking directly to them and then perhaps longer to participate in a conversation. Human interaction is a skill, like language, unpractised it can be forgotten.
So almost exactly two weeks ago I knew I was going to be out and about on the South Bank and West End all day which would provide me ample opportunity to have a conversation. By mid-morning I’d found my first candidate (lucky lucky her, she could probably smell do-gooder before she even saw me). The lady in question was sitting on the steps up to Waterloo Bridge she had a mangy patchy dog in her lap who was showing an enthusiastic interest in a something hidden beneath her arm. She asked me if I could ‘spare any change’ and I said ‘hello’. Well, no need to break the ice she immediately asked if I could do her a favour, I tactfully avoided the affirmative until I knew what the favour might be and asked her what I could do for her (buy her a cup of tea, make a phone call?). She then drew out and enormous, raw, rancid pig’s trotter,
“I found this” she says, grinning at me.
“great!” I say.
“Thought the dog would like it - someone was just throwing it out, can you believe it?”
“Yes, yes I can believe it.”
“I know, it’s terrible what people throw away. The thing is, I think it smells a bit funny and I don’t want to let her have it if it’s going to make her sick. Would you mind having a sniff and telling me what you think?”
I sniff.
“You need to get closer, you can’t really smell it from there” she says thrusting the fetid remnant towards my face. I lean in, I sniff with gusto.
I consider carefully, allowing my nose to interpret the various aromas. I can practically taste it, I may as well have had a good dig around with my tongue.
“It smells pretty disgusting but that’s probably about right, your dog doesn’t seem to mind”. The dog’s tail is wagging so fiercely that I’m worried she might lose her arse.
“Well she’ll throw it up if it doesn’t agree” and we watch silently as the canine jaws go to work.
Feeling that this was a natural end to the conversation she says thanks and on an automatic impulse developed by years of peace be with yous… I shake her hand. Of course, I don’t know how long she’d been fondling the trotter for, but to all intents and purposes, I was shaking the trotter of a deceased pig. So I head home, holding my trotter hand aloft, “don’t anyone touch me there’s been a trotter here”.
Was my first attempt a success? Well that depends on what I was trying to achieve, I just wanted to have a conversation with someone that it had become easy to walk past. Did she benefit from this interaction in any way, I have no idea. What was really great was that, despite the unusual subject matter, out conversation felt normal and relaxed, two people passing the time, sniffing a maggoty trotter. A fortnight has passed – who’s next?