Spitting Image

I get on the overground train from Rectory Road heading south through the collision of ancient streets and buildings that is Hackney. As soon as we pull out of the station a woman walks through the compartment placing photocopied slips of paper on the seats beside the passengers. Underneath each slip is a handy-sized packet of tissues in a clear polythene wrapper. Her movements are practiced, almost mechanical. The note states she is not a beggar, has a family, and needs some money to help her get a job. We can make make a contribution, or perhaps buy a packet of tissues.

Almost as soon as she's laid them out (and before we the next stop) she starts to gather them up again. There is no judgement in her expression for the negative response she receives.

Then a guy on crutches emerges through the connecting door from the adjoining carriage.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, speaking to no one in particular, “but could you help me by giving me some money to buy some food, I'd really appreciate it.”

No one stirs.

I think of saying — “Sorry mate, everyone is suffering from compassion fatigue.” But I hesitate, and the moment is lost.

He shuffles off down the aisle saying, “OK, thank you every one. God bless and have a nice day.” Then repeats his pitch to the second half of the compartment.

I'm still pondering the plight of the homeless, and that I don't want to feel guilty if I don't shell out to everyone who asks, when I realise the train has stopped at London Fields, and that the other passengers have already departed.

I rush towards the exit but the doors shut before I make it.

I silently curse the guy with his crutches and his spiel, and also my own subsequent thoughts on the matter which distracted me.

I'll just have to get off at the next station and get a train back — unless I can get to Broadway Market from Cambridge Heath perhaps?

I ask the young woman who is standing next to me by the doors, and I can't help but notice that she has been crying.

I ask her if she's all right.

“Yeah,” she says, unconvincingly.

As we get off the train I say, “Go on tell me, what's the matter?”

“I've just been dumped,” she says, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

I'm relived it's nothing more serious, but I put my hand on her shoulder and tell her that the person concerned was obviously wasn't worth it, that there are plenty more fish in the sea, and to believe in herself.

The steps down from the platform to street level are narrow and smell of urine.

At the bottom there is a puddle of green phlegm on the ground, freshly ejected because no one has yet stepped in it.

It's in the shape of an electric guitar, and not any old electric guitar — it's definitely a Fender Stratocaster.