What's The Big Issue?

Believe it or not, it's a rare occurrence to walk the streets of London and hear a quiet, slightly mournful "please" as I pass by someone. The city has its usual collection of street vendors and beggars looking for a handout, but on this particularly chilly late Monday afternoon the voice, a plea, was somehow different to my ear. I was heading home, walking toward Islington as I do at the end of the work day, and for a change on the opposite side of the street; I often follow the bus route, thinking that if I'm ready to hop the 341 I can simply flag it down, but this day I was determined to get a bit of exercise having missed a tennis game and wound up crossing the road.

I did see the vendor, pitching The Big Issue, and I probably even gave him a small smile; it's the gregarious American in me. It was just after I'd passed him that I heard him say "please" in a way that quite simply made me pause; it was a bit tired, a bit sad, slightly pleading. I took three more steps forward and then turned around, and our eyes met. Retracing my steps back toward him I asked how much--I'd never bought The Big Issue, a magazine sold by homeless (or recently homed but still struggling) people to earn income--and when he said £2.50 I realised immediately that I didn't have enough change. (I don't carry a lot of cash because I don't need much during the week and Tim is usually the recipient of my "junk change" that accumulates so I don't put holes in my pockets.) 

I pulled a fistful of coins from my coat pocket, and as I scanned them to quickly add up in my head what was there, it was clearly more copper than silver--it wasn't going to make £2.50. I apologised and started to walk away, but he asked to see how much I had, looked at the array of coins in my outstretched hand, and insisted I take his last copy. I demurred, but again he insisted and stuck out his hand, and so I glumly turned my palm and dumped all of its contents into his cupped hand. As I handed over the change I was at least relieved to see that there was a one pound coin, a 50 pence piece, and two 20 p coins--so I wasn't horribly shortchanging him. I declined the copy of the issue he was handing me, but as I walked away he followed me and insisted I take it--in fact he tucked it under my arm and thanked me for supporting The Big Issue, and then smiled and walked back to his pitch.

For blocks after as I walked toward Angel station I felt a little guilty--I had no idea how much the issue was, and admittedly was a bit surprised that it cost £2.50--I later read that half goes towards the issue, and the other half is kept by the vendor as income. I remembered too that I had a crumpled five-pound note in the other pocket, and could have easily given him that--but too late. I think I had just helped him; or had I? He was happy to have my jumble of coins and a smile; it was me who was feeling a bit shamed.

On my next trip down Grays Inn Road I will seek him out and buy another issue, this time with more than enough change in my pocket. And, having read The Big Issue when I got home, I rather enjoyed it. There was an interview with Tori Amos, one of my favourite musicians, in a previous issue that I saw on the online site, and there were a few articles worth my time in this week's edition. It is the most widely circulated street paper in the world (so says Wikipedia). In fact, I think I'll do my best to buy it more regularly, and possibly from the same vendor. And why not? Don't we all like the familiarity of a smiling face that greets us when we shop? I suspect I'm guaranteed a generous smile for my £2.50.

And that, my dear friends, is the big issue. 

Just Another Manic Sunday

I can't say for certain, but I think that this past Sunday, still September, has been the earliest that we've used the fireplace in our London sitting room. The day was windy, wet, and chilly, but it had its charms.

We started the first Sunday of the autumnal equinox on the Isle of Wight, awakening to the sound of rain; alas, I'd lost my 20 p bet with Tim that it wouldn't rain until the afternoon. No matter; we were prepared for a less than brilliant day weather-wise, and expected it to be a lazy Sunday--whiling away the morning over coffee and conversation, having a leisurely breakfast, and then finding a cosy space to watch the boats go by that were braving the inclement weather.

I'd just purchased a coffee percolator and was anticipating its first use. I've always felt that my Farberware stainless steel pot back in America made a delicious cup of coffee, and while this was not Farberware it was a percolator from a well-known company with excellent reviews and a discount on price that sealed the deal for me to give it a go. And while the coffee press has been more than adequate taste-wise (as long as I remind Tim to give it a stir and let it sit for a few minutes, LOL), I often feel like a second cup or we have guests, and then the  cafetiere's capacity is just about two large mugs with a bit left over and that quickly cools. Tim offered to give the percolator its first use, and after a few instructions (fill with cold water, use the measure), he gamely prepped and plugged it in.

So what did I think when Tim presented me with a steaming, perked cup? Well, there was, I must admit, a bit of disappointment--no aroma, no full-flavoured sip. It was only when I went to the kitchen and, with some relief, discovered why--if only Tim had not used decaffeinated coffee, I'm sure it would have been outstanding rather than just, well, good for decaf! Next time. 

The morning slowly progressed to the breakfast table, where another treat awaited me--having tasted a rather uninspired piece of Edam cheese the night before after dinner, I suggested Tim use it in an omelet in the morning; it would be better melted with eggs than eaten on its own, where it had a slightly processed texture. Now, in three years this was to be Tim's first time making an omelet for me, though as you might expect he was sheer grace under pressure. I only made one suggestion, which was to grate the cheese; it simply melts better and can be more easily spread across the entire omelet--I'm one of those people who likes a bit of cheese from end to end! While he cooked, I moved to my duties of setting the table and slicing bread for toast.I have to say I was smiling as I observed the care Tim took to get the omelet right, gently cursing the nonstick pan when the egg held on a bit too long, and giving it a proper turn or two so it was adequately cooked through and ever so gently browned. And how did the morning's second anticipation culminate? Well, there was no disappointment this time--not only did my omelet look perfect, it was delicious. 

The rest of the morning was spent idly watching sailboats come in and out of the harbour, struggling against 30 mph gusts and the occasional driving rain while we perched on the window seat with hot tea, a monocular, and Tim's phone to check the conditions at the Bramble bank where you can pick up wind conditions online.

Oh, there were the odd other activities--gathering the laundry scattered on various warmed radiators throughout the house, doing the morning's dishes, flipping the pages of a magazine. 

We'd decided to brave the elements and walk up to a sandwich shoppe called Tiffins on the high street--we'd conceded that the weather would prevent us from doing anything out of doors, including the annual ploughing festival (much to Tim's disappointment), but I wanted to eat something before we headed back to London and Tim wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Tiffins is not far, but when we arrived we were both soaked from the thighs down owing to waterproof but short jackets that did nothing to keep the windswept rain from pelting our trousers! A baguette stuffed with avocado and salmon for me, Coronation chicken (chicken, curry, and mayo) for Tim, with hot tea and a window seat to watch the other brave souls on the high street kept us busy for the next hour. A quick change to dry gear and we were off to the ferry to head back to London.

Circle back and I'm sitting in front of that lovely, warm fire in the sitting room. 

Sometimes a simple, quiet day is just perfect.