Current Affair Comment by Owl 'I'm going to tell Sofia readers a Christmas story,' says Owl to an Other. 'Leave a warm glow, like Dickens or O. Henry.' 'O Who?' 'You know - The Gifts of the Magi.' 'And your story, is it true?' 'Yes, this lady I know, she wouldn't make things up. She lives in one of these towns, you see, with cobbles and a Historic Centre and expensive little Disneyworld signs.
Henry.’ ‘O Who?’ ‘You know - The Gifts of the Magi.’ ‘And your story, is it true?’ ‘Yes, this lady I know, she wouldn’t make things up. She lives in one of these towns, you see, with cobbles and a Historic Centre and expensive little Disneyworld signs.
Except that the tourists swarm over the cobbles reading their foreign maps and peering at tourist tat, so the locals get irritated and don’t go into town much. A few attend church – the churches are historic as well. On the odd Sunday when she thought she should make an appearance, the lady kept noticing this Big Issue seller standing at a corner.’ ‘Doesn’t she like going then, to church?’ ‘She likes the people, and the music. And she knows they raise lots of money for good causes, like Darfur. But back to the Big Issue seller. She can’t pass him on the other side every time, because the historic street is pretty deserted early on Sunday mornings, so eventually she asks his name. He’s called John, he’s 30 and he sleeps rough or occasionally gets to doss on a mate’s floor. He looks very thin, is usually cold and often wet through, but he always has a pleasant word. One week she brings him a warm coat from a charity shop, another time a hot dog and tea from the market. She asks about housing prospects. They aren’t good. He’s on the ‘list’ but he isn’t an alcoholic or a junkie. He doesn’t have children. He isn’t sick or disabled – yet. Worst of all, he can’t tick the main box, because he doesn’t count as local, though he’s been selling the Big Issue there for two years.’ ‘Can’t the church people help him?’ ‘Now that you mention it, there are several Town Council members in the congregation. At Harvest Festival they process in their robes and chains. Even the councillor in charge of Housing is on the Electoral Roll. But there are rules, and John doesn’t qualify.’ ‘How does he survive?’ ‘Heaven knows. There’s a day centre where he’s supposed to have a social worker, but what’s the use of that if he can’t get a roof over his head? Without a proper address he can’t get state benefits. If he were a layabout who qualified, he’d get all of that. But John’s no layabout – he’s out with his Big Issues in all weathers. The 80p he earns from each magazine will only just buy him a cup of tea on the market.’ ‘So, what’s the Christmas story?’ ‘One Sunday the lady has a longer chat with him, not prying but enough to confirm her hunch that literacy is one of his problems. Next day she goes to the supermarket. She buys, sale price, the following, brand new: one fleece, one showerproof jacket, one sweater, two coloured T-shirts, pack of three white Tshirts, two pairs of boxers. All of that costs her the same as one normal bag of family food. What sweatshop did this lot come from? she worries momentarily – but John’s need is immediate. When she hands the stuff over, he’s full of thanks. She says firmly she’s not a social worker but her taxes pay these people’s wages. She wants them to sort John out now, before another winter kicks in. He promises to keep trying.’ ‘She doesn’t have a spare room?’ ‘Not even a stable bare, or a garden shed. And then there’s her family. Not to mention the principle of the thing.
People shouldn’t be sleeping on streets.
Anyway it so happens that last Sunday she passes again and asks, “Were the clothes all right?” “Oh Babes,” says John (he calls her Babes – at her somewhat mature age she’s not going to object!), “they were wonderful. They must have cost you a fortune.” She assures him they didn’t (relatively speaking). He’s still smiling. “And Babes, I’ve got a room lined up. It’s lovely and I’ve just got to earn 20 quid from the magazines today to get in there.” She finds a banknote, fresh from the hole in the wall. “I can’t take that,” he says.
She tells him he can and he must, and she’ll buy a Big Issue as well. “Babes,” he says, “I could just hug you.” “Well,” she replies, “you’d better do it, hadn’t you?” No other church-goers were actually in the cobbled street at the time, so the rather unusual hug didn’t have to be explained. ‘And is that the end?’ asks the Other.
But Owl can’t answer that, for who truly knows?
A reader enquired if Owl was the Editor. Owl is not the Editor. To wit Owl is independent.
A reader enquired if Owl was the Editor. Owl is not the Editor. To wit Owl is independent.