I never know whether to give money to homeless people or not.
‘Spare change, mate?’ I was asked this morning by a dirty and disease-ridden beggar who was loitering outside the Co-op.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied and continued on my way wearing a wry smile of childish satisfaction.
I felt awful on my return to the house, however, and had to severely rebuke myself for being such a self-righteous arsehole. So much so, in fact, that I immediately went out again to try to make amends.
I relocated the young man easily. Huddled and crouching, he had positioned himself in front of the bakery and was frowning at the pavement, spitting. As I approached, it sounded as though he was reciting some form of ancient Scottish verse to himself, though on closer inspection, I realised that it was just the eager mutterings of someone who was practicing his swearing for later on in the day, when he was drunk.
Going against all of my principles – casual or otherwise – I deposited five pounds in his grubby, little, wooden box and stopped to chat to him for a few minutes. ‘I fancy you would have more luck if you busked with an instrument or something, rather than just hanging around looking forlorn,’ I ventured.
‘Did do,’ he told me. ‘I had a flute but sold it for drugs.’
‘Oh dear. Is that what you will do with the fiver I have just given you – use it to buy drugs?’ I asked him.
‘Yeah,’ he said – his face a big rancid grin of rotting teeth.
And therein lies my dilemma. You can never be sure whether it will realistically benefit these people or not: if they are simply given money for doing nothing. And to that end, I always tend to err on the side of not.
I do appear to have made a new friend, though. Trouble is, I am now afraid that he followed me home and is planning on breaking into the house. Or am I being paranoid?
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