Beggars on Jubilee Bridge
I'm always amazed by seeing beggars in London - within this splendid city, with its glass ziggurats, there are so many desperate people -
I have seen beggars abroad - in Naples, silent men kneeled, their heads bowed, in the chaotic streets - beautiful palazzos shaded wretched creatures - they held out their hands for a few worn coins -
In Taroudant, I saw boys, crippled with polio, dragging themselves past The Cocktail Paradise - their legs were withered - they begged all day for one or two dirham -
My friend Andy, who works for BP Amoco, saw beggars when he was in Luanda - they were crawling over a vast rubbish dump - Andy was looking out of the tinted window of a conference room - Total executives were poring over their clever numbers - later, Andy went to Moscow - I'm not sure if he saw any snow drops there -
I'd always imagined England to be a kindly place - yet here, in its capital, on my way to the National Portrait Gallery, I saw Big Issue sellers on every corner, by every tube station exit - the crowds swirled around them - I saw only a few people buy the magazine -
On Jubilee Bridge, I came across a man all huddled up - you could not see his face - there was a guitar placed upon his frowsty lap - he held a biro tube against one string, as though he'd pluck it - in front of him was a small round basket - inside the basket, there was a scrap of paper, with the word thank you written upon it -
I reached forward, and dropped a pound coin into the basket - a few yards away, a group of musicians played wild trumpets - they looked as though they were Serbs -
The musicians narrowed their eyes at the passers by - one man continued to play - he closed his eyes as he played - the music was wild and passionate -
Later, I saw Man Ray's wonderful photographs - I fell in love with Lee Miller - but leaving the gallery, I had to walk past a Big Issue seller - he just stood there - no one spoke to him - a woman examined the bright pictures upon her I Phone - in two days time, Baroness Thatcher would have a ceremonial funeral costing ten million pounds -
I felt at once cowardly and full of a helpless anger - how had it all come to this?
I'm always amazed by seeing beggars in London - within this splendid city, with its glass ziggurats, there are so many desperate people -
I have seen beggars abroad - in Naples, silent men kneeled, their heads bowed, in the chaotic streets - beautiful palazzos shaded wretched creatures - they held out their hands for a few worn coins -
In Taroudant, I saw boys, crippled with polio, dragging themselves past The Cocktail Paradise - their legs were withered - they begged all day for one or two dirham -
My friend Andy, who works for BP Amoco, saw beggars when he was in Luanda - they were crawling over a vast rubbish dump - Andy was looking out of the tinted window of a conference room - Total executives were poring over their clever numbers - later, Andy went to Moscow - I'm not sure if he saw any snow drops there -
I'd always imagined England to be a kindly place - yet here, in its capital, on my way to the National Portrait Gallery, I saw Big Issue sellers on every corner, by every tube station exit - the crowds swirled around them - I saw only a few people buy the magazine -
On Jubilee Bridge, I came across a man all huddled up - you could not see his face - there was a guitar placed upon his frowsty lap - he held a biro tube against one string, as though he'd pluck it - in front of him was a small round basket - inside the basket, there was a scrap of paper, with the word thank you written upon it -
I reached forward, and dropped a pound coin into the basket - a few yards away, a group of musicians played wild trumpets - they looked as though they were Serbs -
The musicians narrowed their eyes at the passers by - one man continued to play - he closed his eyes as he played - the music was wild and passionate -
Later, I saw Man Ray's wonderful photographs - I fell in love with Lee Miller - but leaving the gallery, I had to walk past a Big Issue seller - he just stood there - no one spoke to him - a woman examined the bright pictures upon her I Phone - in two days time, Baroness Thatcher would have a ceremonial funeral costing ten million pounds -
I felt at once cowardly and full of a helpless anger - how had it all come to this?
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