Supertramp

A few days ago I was in London heading to a night class at a synagogue. I had gotten to the big smoke early as is my wont and I had time to kill hence my presence around Trafalgar Square. I had been into the National Portrait Gallery and enjoyed that and had decided to wander up to Leicester Square when I was approached by a tramp. Now this was a proper tramp, one of the old school style of vagrant, not your homeless junkie. Said tramp had a dog with him, and happily pandering to my love of stereotypes the mutt was on a string. It quite obviously adored it’s master.

Once the tramp had asked me for spare change, I told him it was on condition I could make a fuss of his dog which I promptly did. The dog was fantastic and slobbered like a good ‘un. I got into conversation with the man and he told me something that is still haunting me now, days later. He said that he had been on the streets for 30 years. That’s only 2 and a bit years less than I’ve been alive. He’d been sleeping rough since before I even thought about playschool. I can’t quite get my head around it.

For the longest time I have been preoccupied with the stories of the homeless. I know full well that alcohol and substance abuse are rife as is mental illness but here’s the thing. Had life treated me in such a manner that I ended up on the streets then the chances are that I would turn to alcohol at the very least. Though that does not absolve society of the responsibility of taking of care of it’s most vulnerable. How the hell can we hold our heads up and call ourselves civilised if the majority of us care not a jot about those that we so causally walk past as they huddle under cardboard? How can we let them sink that far? How can we sup our Starbucks, read our newspapers and be so consumed with our daily lives that we do not notice the homeless until it’s too late?

I can’t even begin to imagine the hell that led that man to spend a lifetime on eh streets. I can’t or perhaps don’t want to think what he’s been through since he reached that low point. We are in winter now and the evenings are damned cold. I worry about that man and I worry about his dog. I know from my own pet ownership that you can always rely on a dog to love you no matter what, they don’t let you down or hurt you like people do. I’m safe and well now. My flat is warm and I have my dinner about ready. I hope that the man I was privileged enough to meet Tuesday night is ok. I hope that somehow, somewhere he finds peace and I hope that whatever happens his loyal mutt is right beside him.