Command Performance

It was quite a shock to see Bob’s face staring back at me from a page of the newspaper. For years, he’d been squatting outside the bank, strategically placed for a handout, and when I dropped a few coins in his cap he always had a cheerful word for me, while Sam nuzzled his cold wet nose into my hand.

So what had Bob done to attract this sudden fame? He’d been convicted of begging while living off benefits in a smart council house.

Okay, he’d sucked me in, but it was a good performance, out there with Sam under a dirty old blanket, come rain come shine, half starved, chewing on a bun, with the dregs of cold tea in a plastic cup, before going home to champagne and caviar, or something of the sort.

And something in between, I’d say, where he’d gone to stay for a while as a guest of Her Majesty.

Though Sam hadn’t been invited.