Sometimes I tell you things that are maybe a bit inappropriate and sometimes things which should really be kept just between you and me. This one falls into both categories. Predictably it involves Hen who rang me in stitches the other day. I mentioned didn’t I that she is working the streets of south east England raising money for the Red Cross? It appears, possibly because she is new to this line of work, but I think more because she’s was educated at Rugby, that she invariably gets sent to the less salubrious parts of this region. Oh, she has been to a number of smart locations such as Brighton and Petersfield. And sometimes she is to be found on Argyll Street. Even London Wall. More often than not though it seems she is sent down to Gillingham. I’ve never been to Gillingham but – and as I write this I am hoping very much you don’t come from there – it doesn’t sound a very nice place. I have a feeling its full of people with bad teeth wearing tracksuit bottoms. That wasn’t Hen’s observation. She is not at all snooty about it. In fact she feels very much at home there now.
It had been a dull old day apparently. Cold, grey and drizzly. Hen felt she had slightly lost her mojo and power to connect with the good folk of Gillingham. Then mid-afternoon a very large woman with many tattoos and body piercings and even more folds of exposed flesh waddled towards her. Though, as we learnt in Pretty Woman, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Hen thought it was probably futile, but for want of anything better to do she summoned up the will to engage her in conversation. And the woman stopped to talk! It wasn’t a particularly illuminating or even pleasant conversation. She had unwashed hair, awful skin and to top it all foul breath though these are probably unnecessary details to the picture you already had of her in your mind. Hen gave her the pitch about the crying need for fresh water supplies in Africa and held her attention for a full five minutes at which point, she explained to me, the chances of getting someone to contribute financially has normally increased exponentially. Alas, it was not to be on this occasion. The Old Woman of Gillingham finally stopped Hen and told her she couldn’t give anything because she had been shopping that day and had spent all her money. With a conspiratorial hint in her Medway accent she said, “On this…..” And with that she put her hand into the plastic bag she was carrying, which Hen now recognised was from Victoria’s Secrets, and pulled out her purchase, with a wink and a flourish, to prove it. Hen’s mouth hung open aghast…..
I don’t often bottle it when under the Bodhi Tree, but on reflection I think I had better stop there and leave this one to your imagination.
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