A man gave me five quid today
I was sitting in one of those tunnels that comes out from Tottenham Court tube station.
I’d had a cider and a strong lager and I was feeling pretty mellow.
Even on the streets, life didn’t seem that bad some days.
Like the fool under the olive tree, I wondered to what use I could best put the five pounds.
First I thought ‘why did he give me this money – two two pound coins and a single one pound.
There were arranged in my cap like a face – two big eyes and a smaller nose.
A challenge to act from a mouthless face…because, sans mouth, the message being spouted could have been anything
I could buy more booze
But eventually I would sleep, wake up feeling evil and hung-over
I could buy something to eat
But the dustbins outside the hotels were a source of free provender
I could get on the tube and go to one of the shelters
I could be warm for the night, but I hated those cloying enclosures and the ministering angels.
They meant well but they were a bit condescending
I could save it, hide it in the inner lining of my coat
Then I would have the dilemma of what to do with it all over again tomorrow.
I could invest it. This made me laugh.
I could go on a bus ride to a part of London I didn’t know and seek out fellow soul-mates
I could buy an item of clothing, maybe some new socks.
I could mooch around the charity shops – wow, Shelter would be a good one. I’d be buying goods and giving back to my own cause.
I could invest it. The thought returned.
There was a challenge in investment. There was something perverse but appealling about walking into a bank and saying ‘I want to invest some money’
I can see the bank man’s face as he looked upon a London down-and-out, filfthy, smelly, ill-fitting clothes, unshaven face, broken finger nails.
Then I would put my five pounds on the counter.
’Here’s my money…I want to invest it.’
He would carry on staring and I would have to enquire whether my money was as good as the next man’s.
Maybe he’d ring a bell and have the security guards evict me. Or if he was a kind man, maybe he’d explain that five pounds wasn’t really enough to invest, and anyway, I’d have to carry on putting money into my investment on a regular basis.
‘Your advert says – no amount is too small.’
Maybe he smells the alcohol on my breath. Maybe he is tiring of me. Maybe he thinks I am a waste of time and space, but suddenly he says:
’I’m sorry. I really am very busy’
I look around. The bank is nearly empty.
‘With paperwork,’ he adds as if reading my thoughts.
‘You don’t think I’m good enough to invest money’ I would say, ‘Because I’m down on my luck.’
Maybe my tone is just a little too aggressive. I see that hand moving towards the underside of the counter again.
‘OK. OK. I’ll go," I would say, ‘But remember this. If our positions were reversed, I’d help you invest your five pounds. Because I’d know what it was like to be me.’
This scenario unfolds itself in my mind, but I am still in the underground passage near Tottenham Court Station. And the five pounds is still looking at me, its mouthless face, mocking, daring…