What are you working towards?
When I was 18, three of my friends and I bought inter-rail tickets in order to spend a month travelling around Europe. I took £115. Yes, £115 — for a month. This has probably got you thinking –
A. That is so little money to take for a month?
B. How did he survive?
C. Perhaps it was a very long time ago when £115 was worth a lot?
In answer to the above –
A. Yes, it was. B. Not too well but I did C. Yes it was a long time ago but it was still very little back then but all I had.
Needless to say, two and a half weeks in — having slept on trains, in train stations (if not booted out by guards), graveyards (yes, graveyards), under bridges and in parks — I’d run out of money.
It is incredible how quickly leftover food on plates outside restaurants starts to look appealing. It is also incredible how far you’ll travel on the off chance you may eat — a rail trip from Munich to a former foreign exchange family elsewhere in Bavaria on the off chance of getting fed (we did) is testament to that. Even braving the free trip from the station to their house in complete darkness in the back of some workman’s van to get there.
Arriving back at Dover after the 4 weeks, a skinny boy now quite skeletal with his clothes hanging off him — I was singled out at customs. My rucksack was rummaged through and with contents scrutinised, I was asked about all of the places I had been to. Amsterdam seemed to be the topic of most questions. Luckily for me, I believe the pungent odour of a bag of unwashed clothes and socks that could double up as chemical weapons helped reduce the time that this eager customs officer wanted to spend on this particular assignment and so I was left to go on my way a half an hour or so later.
Unfortunately I had been split up from my two friends (I know I said I started out with three but one of them left 1 week in to the trip which is the subject of another story). Pre-mobile phone days — there was no way of contacting them. I headed to the bus station to get the last bus back home, hoping they’d be there but they weren’t so I assumed they’d already gone. This bus I was on was going to be tight. There was little to no time between the stop at London and making it on to the connecting bus to home — even if it got to London on time.
Needless to say, I missed the connection and with zero pence to my name, the Waldorf Astoria was not an option for staying the night before the next bus the following morning. I opted to sleep in the park at Grosvenor square instead. I hopped over the fence and settled down within an area of bushes in my sleeping bag. At one point, a lady walking a huge dog that looked like it could fight a tiger walked by. The dog stopped and sniffed around where I was. I was petrified but again I believe lady luck was on my side and the month’s worth of teenage sweat and vile body odour emanating from my sleeping bag was enough to put off even the most ferocious of canines.
The next morning, having not a second of sleep, I headed off to the bus station — getting there at least 3 hours before the bus was due to leave. I assumed that –
a. The place would be warm and dry
b. I might get some rest and
c. I wouldn’t get moved on by anyone as I at least had a valid bus ticket home that entitled me to make use of the salubrious premises.
I quickly noticed though that there were plenty of others there who had made the same assumptions of a & b above without having the excuse provided by c.
“Can you spare any change?” — I was asked by an old guy who looked like the hard times he’d gone through made my current predicament look like a holiday, which indeed it was meant to be.
“I’m sorry but I haven’t got any money. I slept in a park last night”.
With that, the old guy’s look changed instantly from despair to care.
“OK, brother”, he said, “I’ve only got a quid but I’ll get you one of these, they always help me out”.
And he subsequently bought me a cup of hot Oxo from the drinks machine.
I have never and will never forget that act of kindness. He had almost nothing yet was willing to give it away to help me out.
He told me about his life, how he’d fallen on hard times when he lost his job as a miner in Yorkshire and the problem drink. 3 hours passed, we said goodbye and unlike him I went back to my usual comfortable existence.
In an age where it is easy to just write #bekind on whatever social media account tickles your fancy, it’s not always matched by actions. #bekind is a fantastic message but means nothing unless it is actually put in to practice.
If you see someone going through a hard time, try and give something back. It doesn’t have to be money. It could be your time. It could just be someone they can talk to.
I hear a lot recently about virtue signalling and a lot of this recently has been aimed at the England football team. They’ve just donated their prize money to the NHS.
I’ll say that again. They’ve just donated their prize money to the NHS. That’s not virtue signalling, that’s action.
It’s a reminder of the true value of money and what we should be working towards.
The old guy called me brother. He was right. We are all genuinely in this together.
