Beggars & Buskers

I don't get out much and for me to make a cross country journey on my own without carers or assistance was quite an achievement ( I jest) I was heartily sick of Wales and therefore had decided that I was going to leave for a long weekend because I knew that the men with the Prince of Wales feathers were going to be beaten by the men with the Red Roses. It was close by all account but I didn't want to be in a Country or Capital City that laid its hat on this one result so I went to become a red dragon over the white cliffs of Dover. Wrexham FC, my childhood team were playing, and I hadn't seen them live for a good few seasons. For me to get there, I had to go through that there London. By a strange quirk of fate I had made a decision before leaving that I would use any small change that I had and I would use it to give to buskers and beggars. As it turned out I only saw one beggar who was actively asking and I was ready to give. I have a flat tray at home, which was made specifically for the purpose of holding small change by a Design Technology teacher that I worked with when I was a Teacher in South East London. Once I have amassed an amount I go looking for a charity box to put it in. This is not a manifesto for giving because I'm sure everyone does their bit but I was aware that I had become a bit of a miser and a bit of a skinflint. If someone was going to entertain me on the underground or out and about I was going to remunerate them. Dover was a disappointment. It's a rough old town and not what you would expect of a South Coast resort. It's actually a Port but I was expecting a Dame Vera Lynn lookalike to be serenading us as we got off the train. It reminded me of Rhyl or Barry! You see, you take Wales with you everywhere you go. There were many different languages on the streets and the economic migrants mixed uneasily with the white working class and the charity shops. I knew that Hastings was rough but Dover as well? It doesn't seem right that London with all its wealth is but an hour away. High Speed trains take you from the opulence of St Pancras International to the classic 'Brief Encounter' station of 1950s England. It is easy to understand how British Nationalism can take a hold in places like this. A 1-1 draw and it was back to that there London and a mode of transport that is guaranteed to suck the life and joy out of the most optimistic and extrovert of individuals so you can imagine what it does to a depressive. That there Londoners are probably used to on-board entertainment but I was delighted when two guys entered the carriage deep underground at King's Cross and entertained us with 'Hit the Road Jack' with a trumpet and a saxophone. They had accompanying music hidden in a pull trolley affair which  I thought showed great initiative. I was delighted to see them and was all grins as I tapped my feet and reached for the money that I had put to one side for just such an occurrence. They hadn't even been round yet with the paper mug. The looks on the other personages fizzogs led me to believe that 'they were not amused'. After a cold, miserable afternoon in Dover, these two characters, a travelling troupe of minstrels made my day. You are a prisoner of tunnels and other peoples' stares on the London Underground and boy can some people stare, so any diversion or distraction is well worth having in my opinion. At another station, a songstress was serenading the travellers with a very appropriate cover version of Zombie by the Cranberries  She was good. 'Spontaneity' and 'Pay what you can' are frowned upon. Instead it is pay what we tell you! Commercial London has got it all sewn up. Tourists are herded and fleeced and two very different Londons operate cheek by jowl. The 'haves and the 'have nots'. From what I saw, the 'haves' were not really in to giving.