Looking poor, feeling fine

Tonight a young guy asked me for money. The normal place, outside Tooting Bec’s premier corner shop, a place where no matter the hour the staff are friendly and the Milky-ways are only 18p. Specifically he wanted 80p. First a light. “You look like the kind of guy who could help. I’m really hungry; I just need 80p to get some food.” I’m not sure he intended the semi-colon.

He didn’t look poor. But I knew I had 80p and was enjoying a fine mood and that feeling of whatever is around the corner really doesn’t matter right now. I decided it was his. If only I felt this good at Christmas. Only I couldn’t find it. Then I noticed his left hand clutching a handful of coins. I was being ripped off. For 80p. Jesus. An 80p I couldn’t find in the first place. Was that all I was worth? He’d obviously seen my shoes and determined that this wasn’t the schmuck to push his luck on. I said sorry and moved on. Poor-looking, and short 80p.

But enough of that. There are nights where nothing can harm a general sense of well-being, and I’ve had a lot of those recently. Being back from Barcelona helps. But sometimes I like writing about impending doom just so I can use swear words. Harmless. And it’s so fucking hard to use swear words when you feel good.

Where was I? Yes. The bus. Bus home. Rare. And another night of playing the same tune in on my Ipod; another I found by accident and can’t get enough of. And no nutters on the streets of Streatham tonight. Something is obviously going my way. They’re bound to catch up with me sooner or later, I know that. I suspect by the end of the week. Sunday latest.