I was so early this morning that, instead
of going to the office to sit amongst the serried ranks of the earnestly
employed, I went for a short walk to watch Edinburgh waking up. It was a cold, blustery day with grey skies
and the hint of a good old Scottish haar, which has been the prevalent weather
force hereabouts these past few days. I
wore my long woollen overcoat, snug and warm, my Doctor Who scarf, and my flat
tweed cap. I looked like a 1920s motorist
about to go out for a spin in his Morris Cowley. I headed west along Rose
Street, a bohemian quarter of Edinburgh with restaurants that sell peculiar
dishes that started off life as chickens and ducks. The street was lined with delivery vans
unloading their wares into the shops that line Princes Street. One driver,
standing at the back of his van with his finger on the switch that operated the
tail-lift, which was full of groceries, nodded to me as I strolled past. ‘Cold
day,’ he said. I inclined my head –
there was no need for elaborate conversation – we were two workers at ease with
the world and each other. The few people
that were about were on their way to work.
They looked cold and fed up. I
reflected how refreshing and stimulating a walk is, and I wondered why they
didn’t look more cheerful. I never quite
achieved Alice Walker’s ‘feeling in
touch with the universe and with the spirit of the universe,’ but at
least my muscles were working and my blood was flowing. One woman, scurrying along in a huge fur coat,
had a face full of such sorrow that she looked like a beaver that has suddenly
discovered that someone has removed all the fish from that particular stretch
of river. After all, it was Friday, and
the horrors of the office would soon be replaced by the splendours of the
weekend. I turned into grandiose George
Street and headed east. The beggars were
not yet in place – they seem to turn up for work in the same way as do bank
managers or shop assistants. They lay
out their sheets of cardboard and old, soiled blankets, throw down their caps,
and settle themselves down for a day’s trading.
Many are accompanied by unfortunate canines, presumably on the hopeful
grounds that such a unique selling proposition leads to an increase in
revenue. One chap had left his post
outside of a building society. His woollen hat lay upturned on the
pavement. It contained a few copper
coins of the realm. On his blanket lay four paperback novels. He seemed to have plenty to occupy his mind
whilst he whiled away his time warding off haemorrhoids. I wondered what they do for the toilet. They have to walk a fair distance to Princes
Street and the public toilets there, or perhaps they go to the National Gallery
or Royal Academy on the Mound, where they can look at some ancient paintings
and get a lungful of culture before they go back to their miserable existences. I paused, took out my wallet and tossed fifty
pence into the softback man’s hat. I
remembered Horace Rumpole’s instruction when he distributed largesse to the
needy for them not to spend it on anything worthwhile and wondered anew how
these people survive, let alone live fruitful lives. That notwithstanding, I went to the office in
a more cheerful frame of mind than when I had stepped from the bus into Thistle
Street at a quarter to eight of a cold morning in early spring.
