The Beggar's Tale
I went to Highbury Corner to borrow a friends bike to practice cycling. (After enjoying it in Stockholm and Karlstad, I've decided to get a bike. But I'll learn to cycle competently - signally, looking behind me, et cetera - first. I won't know what bike suits me until I'm riding properly, so in the meantime I'm borrowing H's.) We had a long chat, so it was almost midnight by the time I was walking along Old Street.
A man approached, looking a bit rough, the way beggars approach you all the time in London. He pulled up his thin waterproof jacket to show a deep gash in his lower arm. "I'm sorry to bother you. I need to get to Homerton Hospital. Could you give me a pound for the bus?."
It was a deep gash. There was an open, diamond-shaped wound about eight centimetres down by three or four across, with interesting shades of pink and red inside. I think I saw something more pale. There was a lot of dried blood round the edge, and his arm was swollen just above the wound. I did wonder why it wasn't bleeding, but I don't know that much about cutting your arm open.
I did a first aid course last year, so I offered to help look at it. He said he needed bus fare. I said that if he was refusing my assistance as a first aider, I couldn't do anything. (I am a stone-hearted man who has been in London far too long.) So he said that I could take a look at it if I liked, but he really needed to get to hospital.
(Why didn't I call him an ambulance? Because in London, at least for the walking wounded who aren't a priority, the bus is quicker.)
I still wasn't completely sure whether he was simply a beggar with a more dramatic story than usual, so I said I'd pay for the bus when he got on. So we went to the bus stop. I rinsed the wound with water from my platypus. He told me that he'd ripped his arm when he had been cycling down an alleyway and not seen something sticking out to the side. I thought he smelt of drink, but that alchohol could explain either a wounded cyclist or a beggar. He told me that he felt that I was treating him like a child, and showed me that he already had a pound, and just needed another one. He emphasized that he was being honest, and was very clearly injured, and that I could give him the pound and go. I told him that the inside of his jacket probably wasn't sterile, and it would be better if he kept it off.
He started asking other people for a pound. I pointed out that that wasn't going to make the bus arrive any sooner. He put his jacket on, and pulled it up (a little theatrically, I thought) to show the wound. At one point, he commented that his injury was surely worth a pound, but not that that was why he'd done it, of course, he was genuine. I apologised for the way London has made me see people asking for a pound.
He asked a woman walking her bike past, a thirty something man standing by the bus stop, and a group of asian women. Most sped past, although there was a longer conversation with the man. I kept waiting, still willing to put his behaviour down to alcohol. Finally, a man with dark tousled hair and a hat said of course he'd give him the pound, and got out his wallet.
"Ah well." I said afterwards as a goodbye which didn't really disguise my distrust. "You've got your two pounds."
"I'm still a pound short" he said. He said something about why he'd shown me his, but I was already walking away.
A man approached, looking a bit rough, the way beggars approach you all the time in London. He pulled up his thin waterproof jacket to show a deep gash in his lower arm. "I'm sorry to bother you. I need to get to Homerton Hospital. Could you give me a pound for the bus?."
It was a deep gash. There was an open, diamond-shaped wound about eight centimetres down by three or four across, with interesting shades of pink and red inside. I think I saw something more pale. There was a lot of dried blood round the edge, and his arm was swollen just above the wound. I did wonder why it wasn't bleeding, but I don't know that much about cutting your arm open.
I did a first aid course last year, so I offered to help look at it. He said he needed bus fare. I said that if he was refusing my assistance as a first aider, I couldn't do anything. (I am a stone-hearted man who has been in London far too long.) So he said that I could take a look at it if I liked, but he really needed to get to hospital.
(Why didn't I call him an ambulance? Because in London, at least for the walking wounded who aren't a priority, the bus is quicker.)
I still wasn't completely sure whether he was simply a beggar with a more dramatic story than usual, so I said I'd pay for the bus when he got on. So we went to the bus stop. I rinsed the wound with water from my platypus. He told me that he'd ripped his arm when he had been cycling down an alleyway and not seen something sticking out to the side. I thought he smelt of drink, but that alchohol could explain either a wounded cyclist or a beggar. He told me that he felt that I was treating him like a child, and showed me that he already had a pound, and just needed another one. He emphasized that he was being honest, and was very clearly injured, and that I could give him the pound and go. I told him that the inside of his jacket probably wasn't sterile, and it would be better if he kept it off.
He started asking other people for a pound. I pointed out that that wasn't going to make the bus arrive any sooner. He put his jacket on, and pulled it up (a little theatrically, I thought) to show the wound. At one point, he commented that his injury was surely worth a pound, but not that that was why he'd done it, of course, he was genuine. I apologised for the way London has made me see people asking for a pound.
He asked a woman walking her bike past, a thirty something man standing by the bus stop, and a group of asian women. Most sped past, although there was a longer conversation with the man. I kept waiting, still willing to put his behaviour down to alcohol. Finally, a man with dark tousled hair and a hat said of course he'd give him the pound, and got out his wallet.
"Ah well." I said afterwards as a goodbye which didn't really disguise my distrust. "You've got your two pounds."
"I'm still a pound short" he said. He said something about why he'd shown me his, but I was already walking away.