...And Relax

A couple of years ago I did the most stressful job I’d ever done in my life. It managed to be both boring and demanding, the people I worked with were to a man absolute arseholes and the entire company was run by a woman who micro-managed every single tiny element of the proceedings but made damn sure she took no responsibility for anything that went wrong.

I did this job because at the time my father was in the final stages of chronic illness and it was very important that I was able to get home in short order should the need arise, and the company was based five minutes from the house. Believe me, when the old man passed away, I took as much compassionate leave as was available and then some.

Years before that, I held another position that was equally if not more stressful, with a Ops Manager whose only purpose was to find a reason to fire the entire staff. Yet I enjoyed that job. Why? Because it was ninety minutes drive away from home. Getting there in the morning was an hour-and-a-half of just me and the radio. Going home was the same thing, and in that long drive up the M1 I could sing very loudly – loudly enough to get quizzical looks from other drivers even on the fast stratches – and change from Work Me into Home Me.

Decompression. That’s what it was all about.

So: two posts ago we left each other at the traffic lights. This is where we pick up.

I walk to work. I walk back. It’s about three miles, an hour, both ways. In that time I can grab a coffee, look at the shops, generally change from Home Me to Work Me and back again.

The halfway mark, the point where ‘leaving work’ turns into ‘really on the way home’ comes at the Beehive, my favourite pub. I don’t often stop there because I don’t drink much at the best of times and drinking alone is never a good idea anyway, but it serves as a marker and as a psychological threshold, so that’s good.

There’s always a fellow lurking around that area; he walks up to you and goes into the same routine every time. “Sir? My name’s Gary and I’m homeless. I wonder if you could spare me a pound, or maybe buy me some chicken?”

I’m not a monster. The first time I ran into Gary I gave him a couple of quid. After a few approaches, and because my mood fluctuates wildly at the best of times and because I’d heard the same spiel once too often, I stopped giving him cash, or offering to buy him food (which he’d politely reject, despite having made such an offer part of his request. Another reason to stop). Instead, I’d politely rebuff him and go on my way, while he’d amble on to McDonald’s or Asda and find somebody else to entreat.

Two Saturdays ago, after an especially trying Timmy Time and a longer, slower than usual walk to the lights, Gary came up and with his usual “Sir?” and got shorter shrift than normal.

Just up the road – and by now it’s dark, and it’s started to drizzle that fine rain that isn’t noticeable at first but still manages to get you soaked through and I’m wearing a lightweight jacket because it was fine this morning – somebody else comes up to me. Bloke about my height and build, bearded.

“Excuse me Sir, could you spare a pound? I’m hungry and homeless and – “

I look down at the fella’s feet. He’s wearing better shoes than I am. I hitch my backpack up onto my shoulder. There are a couple of Ethiopian guys standing talking outside the grocery shop I’ve just passed.

“Sorry mate, no change.” This is true. I even pat my pockets to demonstrate.

“Please, Sir, just a pound – “

“No, sorry mate, I said I’ve not no cashon me.”

“Cunt” he spits, and walks off.

I’m a reasonable man. Good-natured. Generous. Over this last year I’ve had some problems but they’re under control. I don’t throw tantrums, I try to defuse situations through discussion and patience. But this, this sends me into an instant rage.

“What did you say, sunshine? Come here and say that again, you fucker.”

There’s the tell-take, the giveaway. My everyday voice, the voice of amiable regret, disappears just like that, and instead I’m a roaring North Londoner, there’s a rasp where there should be honey.

“Cunt” he says again. And that’s it. I’m after him. The Ethiopians take a step back as I run past them and grab him.

“Don’t you fucking call me a cunt, you little fucker, I’ll have your fucking - "

And he raises his hands. Maybe to defend himself, I don’t know. But it’s enough. I do something I’ve not done since I was seventeen years old and standing face-to-face with someone who, at that moment, I hated with a passion.

I hit him first. Right fist to the side of his head. He jerks his head back, more in shock than pain. Tries to throw a punch back. Doesn’t manage it. I get another one in. Then turn around, hitch my bag up again, and walk away. I don’t look back, knowing that if I do and he’s coming after me, this could become very ugly very quickly. What if he’s got a weapon? I don’t want to feel the quick coldness of a blade, or worse still not feel it but only find blood through my shirt as I walk off. I don’t want to die on a sodden lousy street in Tottenham, under the dingy yellow light of a Turkish supermarket.

But he’s gone. So I keep walking, no quicker, keeping the same pace as before, until I reach Bruce Castle Park and the sure knowledge that this is going no further.

I get out the pack of nicotine gum, pop a fresh tablet, and head home.