I’m not sure what compelled me to write this, but here we go. Yesterday, I nipped to the shop for a few bits, my head foggy from a sleepless night. I trudged back, ready for the afternoon, when someone shouted my name. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, so I squinted and wandered toward the pub across the square. I spotted two old mates sitting outside, necking beers. I was still clutching my shopping bags. We shared a laugh, and my mate bought a few beers. Then one suggested, “Fancy a trip to the Eagle on Ladbroke Grove?” I thought, “Why not?” So, I stashed my shopping behind the bar, jumped into my mate’s car, and went off to the Eagle.
At the Eagle, we necked more beers and ran into faces I hadn’t seen in years. The banter flowed freely. But, truth be told, I started nodding off in the pub—dozing by 5 p.m.! knackered, I decided to head home. I love a good walk, but exhaustion slowed me down, and I kept pausing. Eventually, I reached Tesco on Ladbroke Grove and took a break. I grabbed a sandwich, sat on the pavement, and tucked in. Then it hit me—I was right next to the cashpoint. A few people who knew me walked by, and I thought, “F..., they probably think I’m begging!” That made me laugh, especially when another mate appeared, clearly assuming I was up to something.
My mate grinned and said, “I’ve thought about doing that,” before laughing and heading in another direction, leaving me to it. Out of the blue, one of the old characters I thought was dead turned up with a load of shopping bags full of crap she’d probably nicked from shops in the area. We had a banter, and I don’t think she recognised me! Still, it was good to see her. She moved on when some bloke appeared—probably her dealer. I heard her say to him, “He’s not a beggar,” which made me laugh because the look on the fella’s face told me he thought I was. The world feels different when you’re sitting on the pavement, and passers-by assume you’re a beggar. It reminded me of George Orwell’s "Down and Out in Paris and London" [ one of my favourite books ] from the 1930s—like I was a character scraping by on the streets, living hand to mouth, working dead-end jobs to survive.
Eventually, I pulled myself up and hopped on a bus home. Now, I’m awake, typing this with a wry smile. I didn’t see that day coming! I’m still alive and kicking, no harm done, and none meant!
Aw, well! We live and squirm!
Down and Out in Paris and London (1933. new ed. 2001)
'You have talked so often of going to the dogs - and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them'. George Orwell's vivid memoir of his time among the desperately poor and destitute in London and Paris is a moving tour of the underworld of society. Here he painstakingly documents a world of unrelenting drudgery and squalor - sleeping in bug-infested hostels and doss houses, working as a dishwasher in the vile 'Hotel X', living alongside tramps, surviving on scraps and cigarette butts - in an unforgettable account of what being down and out is really like.
#MakeSureYouAreReading