The World According to Bob: The further adventures of one man and his street-wise cat (15 page)

The problem now was that the snow was falling so steadily and heavily that it was settling on both of us. Every few yards I had to brush an inch of fresh snow off my shoulders then do the same thing to Bob.

I had a rather knackered old umbrella which I produced from my rucksack. But it was next to useless in the strong winds so I gave up on it within minutes.

‘This is no good, Bob. Think we need to find you a coat,’ I said. I dived into a small convenience store, stamping my feet clean of snow in the doorway.

At first the owner, an Indian lady, looked shocked to see the pair of us standing there, which was hardly surprising really. We must have made a bizarre sight. But her mood soon thawed.

‘You are brave walking about in this weather,’ she smiled.

‘I don’t know about brave,’ I said. ‘Mad might be closer to the truth.’

I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. At first I wondered about buying a new umbrella, but they were too expensive for me. I only had a small amount of change. But then I had an idea and headed for the area where the kitchen supplies were stocked. I saw a roll of small, heavy duty bin liners.

‘That might do the trick, Bob,’ I said quietly.

‘How much for a single bag?’ I asked.

‘I can’t sell them as singles. I have to sell you the whole roll. It’s £2,’ she said.

I didn’t want to fork out that much. I really was broke. But then I noticed she had little black carrier bags on the counter top for customers to carry their shopping.

‘Is there any chance I could take one of those?’ I said.

‘OK,’ she said, looking sheepishly at me. ‘They are 5p.’

‘OK, I’ll take one. Do you have any scissors?’

‘Scissors?’

‘Yes, I want to make a hole in it.’

This time she looked at me as if I truly was off my rocker. But, probably against her better instinct, she dipped down behind the counter and produced a small pair of sewing scissors.

‘Perfect,’ I said.

I grabbed the closed end of the bag and cut a small semi-circle about the size of Bob’s head. I then opened the bag up and slipped Bob’s head through it. The improvised poncho fitted like a glove and covered his body and legs perfectly.

‘Oh, I see,’ the lady said, laughing. ‘Very clever. That should do the trick.’

It took us about fifteen minutes to get to Angel. One or two people shot us funny looks as we walked along, but to be honest most were more concerned with getting from A to B safely in the drifting snow.

I knew there was no way we were going to be able to survive outside the tube at our normal pitch. The pavement was thick with slushy snow. So Bob and I positioned ourselves in the nearest underpass where the bulk of commuters were taking refuge.

I really didn’t want to keep Bob out in the cold for too long, so I put some extra effort into selling the magazine. Fortunately, a lot of people seemed to take pity on us and dipped into their pockets. My pile of magazines was soon dwindling.

By late afternoon, I’d accumulated enough cash to keep us going for a day or two, I reckoned. The main thing was that I had enough to keep the gas and electricity topped up until, hopefully, the weather improved.

‘Now, all we’ve got to do is get home,’ I said to Bob as we once more bent ourselves into the icy winds and headed back to the bus stop.

There have to be easier ways of earning a crust than this
, I told myself in the warmth of the bus.

Making money was so hard, especially because the gap between those that had it and those that didn’t was growing ever greater. Working on the streets of London really was a tale of two cities, as I was reminded again a few days later.

I was standing just outside the concourse of Angel tube station with Bob on my shoulders around lunchtime, when I noticed a bit of a commotion going on inside at the ticket gate where passengers emerged from the trains below. A group of people were having an animated conversation with the attendants. When it was over they were let through seemingly without paying and started heading in our direction.

I recognised the large, slightly scruffy, blond-haired figure at the centre of the group immediately. It was the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. He was with a young boy, his son I assumed, and a small group of smartly-dressed assistants. They were marching straight towards my exit.

I didn’t really have time to think so I just reacted instinctively as he approached me.

‘How about a
Big Issue
, Boris?’ I said, waving a magazine in the air.

‘I’m in a bit of a rush,’ he said, looking flustered. ‘Hold on.’

To his credit he started digging around in his pockets and produced a pile of coins which he then proceeded to drop into my hands.

‘There you go. More valuable than British pounds,’ he said.

I didn’t understand what he meant but was grateful nevertheless.

‘Thanks very much indeed for supporting Bob and me,’ I said, handing him a magazine.

As he took it, he smiled and tilted his head slightly at Bob.

‘That’s a nice cat you’ve got there,’ he said.

‘Oh yes, he’s a star, he’s even got his own travelcard so he can travel around,’ I said.

‘Amazing. Really,’ he said, before heading off in the direction of Islington Green with his entourage.

‘Good luck, Boris,’ I said as he disappeared from view.

I hadn’t wanted to be rude and check what he’d given me a moment or two earlier, but, judging by the weight and number of the coins, it felt way more than the cover price of the magazine.

‘That was generous of him wasn’t it, Bob?’ I said, fishing around for the coins which I’d hurriedly stuffed in my jacket pocket.

As I looked at the small pile of cash, however, my heart sank. The coins all bore the mark
Confoederatio Helvetica
.

‘Oh no, Bob,’ I said. ‘He gave me bloody Swiss Francs.’

It was only then that the penny dropped, as it were.

‘That’s what he meant when he said
more valuable than British pounds
,’ I muttered to myself.

Except, of course, they weren’t more valuable.

It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that, while foreign bank notes can be exchanged at most banks and bureaux de change, coins cannot. They were, effectively, worthless. To me, at least.

One of our friends at the tube station, Davika, passed by a moment or two later.

‘Saw you with Boris, James,’ she smiled. ‘Did he see you all right?’

‘No he didn’t as a matter of fact,’ I said. ‘ He gave me a pile of Swiss Francs.’

She shook her head.

‘That’s the rich for you,’ she said. ‘They live on a different planet from the rest of us.’

I just nodded quietly in agreement. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me.

A few years earlier, I’d been busking in Covent Garden. It had been approaching 7.30pm, curtain-up time at most of the theatres and opera houses in the area, and a lot of people were breaking into a panicky trot as they emerged from the tube station. Unsurprisingly, few of them had any time to notice me strumming away with Bob at my feet, but one particularly flustered looking character in a bow tie did acknowledge me.

He saw me from a few yards away and instantly dug into his pocket. He was a very grand looking character with a mane of grey hair. I could have sworn I recognised him from the television, but couldn’t place him. When I saw him reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a scrunched up note, I thought my luck was in. It was red and looked all the world like a big denomination, possibly a £50 note. That was the only note I knew that had red in it.

‘There you go, my man,’ he said, thrusting it into my hand as he slowed down for a brief moment.

‘Cheers. Thanks very much indeed,’ I said.

‘Have a good evening,’ he said, laughing as he picked up speed again and ran towards the Piazza.

I had no idea why he was laughing. I assumed he was in a good mood.

I waited a few minutes until the crowds had died down a little before recovering the scrunched up note out of my pocket.

It didn’t take me long to work out that it wasn’t a £50 note. As I’d thought, it was red, but it had a picture of a bearded bloke I’d never seen before on it. It had the number 100 written on it. The writing was in some kind of Eastern European language. The only word that looked familiar was
Srbije
. I had no idea what it was or what it might be worth. It might have been more than £50 for all I knew. So I packed up my stuff and headed for a Bureau de Change the other side of the Piazza which I knew was open late for tourists.

‘Hi, can you tell me what this is worth, please?’ I said to the girl who was behind the window.

She looked at it and gave me a puzzled look.

‘Don’t recognise it, hold on, let me check with someone else,’ she said.

She went into a back office where I could see an older bloke sitting.

After a short confab she came back.

‘Apparently it’s Serbian, it’s 100 Serbian dinar,’ she said.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Can I exchange it?’

‘Let’s see what it’s worth,’ she said tapping away at a computer and then a calculator.

‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘That comes out at just over 70p. So we wouldn’t be able to exchange it.’

I felt disappointed. I’d secretly hoped that it might be enough money to get me and Bob through the weekend. Fat chance. There were times when I got really depressed by the predicament I found myself in. I had turned 30. The majority of guys of my age had a job or a car, a home and a pension plan, maybe even a wife and a few children. I had none of those things. Part of me didn’t actually want them, truth be told. But I did yearn for the security that some of those things brought. I was fed up with living off my wits on the streets. And I was fed up with being humiliated by those who had absolutely no concept of – nor sometimes any sympathy for – the life I was having to lead. There were times when I felt like I was close to breaking point. A few days after that incident with the Mayor, I felt like I had reached it.

Bob and I finished work early and headed down to the tube, jumping on a Northern line train to Euston then switching on to the Victoria line to Victoria Station. As we weaved our way through the tunnels, Bob walked ahead of me on his lead part of the way. He knew where we were heading.

We were meeting my father, something I’d begun to do more regularly in recent months. Relations between us had been pretty fraught in the past. When my parents had separated, my mother had won custody and taken me to live on the other side of the world, in Australia, so he’d barely known me when I was growing up as a little boy. By the time I’d come to London as a teenager, I was a real handful. Within a year of getting here, I had disappeared off the face of the earth and started sleeping rough. When I’d resurfaced, he’d tried to help me get back on track, but, to be honest, I had been almost beyond salvation.

We’d become a bit closer when I’d started cleaning up my act a little and had got into the habit of meeting for a few drinks at a pub at Victoria Station. The staff there were pretty friendly and would let me slip Bob in provided I kept him hidden from the other punters. I’d learned to keep him under a table where he was happy snoozing. It was a cheap and cheerful place and we’d usually have a meal as well. It was always my dad’s treat. Well, I was never going to have the money to treat him, was I?