May 2022

I  decide to shelter under scaffolding in St.Martin’s Lane – It’s raining again.

Why do I live in this darned country, it’s always bloody raining.

I cant even go for a bit of a wander round Covent Garden without getting soaked.

There I stand under planks of wood keeping out of the rain, feeling sorry for myself.

I am soon joined by another chap, clearly of an equal intellect who has the very same idea. 

This chap though has been dealt a shittier hand & seems to be living on the street, he has carrier bags in either hand and a rucksack on his back. A sleeping bag pokes out of one of the carriers. His parka is grimy, his face moths from a good shave. 

We make eye contact and spontaneously say “All-right” to each other at the exact same time.

All-right? Its a funny old way of saying hello, in reality it’s not like you actually want the other person to tell you how they are, in fact that’s the last thing you’d be probably be interested in, God forbid they stop and tell you how they are getting on, but as an informal short hand greeting to someone you meet in passing it works pretty well.

We talk about the weather: English people – myself in particular would be lost without the ability to lament the current state of the weather, ( as nine times out of ten it’s crap it is a reliable go to conversation point ). Without shitty British weather we’d probably go for entire days without talking to another human being, counter intuitive though it may be abysmal meteorological events put the Great into Britain.

I notice people walking towards us from along the road, well dressed, familiar, hang on, that bloke looks like……. then the other chap…………. It’s him. I have just clocked who I’m looking at. Bob Geldof & Ian Hislop. Each has an attractive woman on his arm. I am momentarily divided as to whether I should be excited at seeing these two up close or jealous that both these aging old geezers have attractive women on their arms. I go for excited option, after all they’re two iconic characters for me:  Geldof from way back Boomtown Rats days, fifteen year old me knew all the tunes. Then Hislop & Private Eye, Have I got News for You – how well I know this stuff.

But, I’m British, so it wouldn’t do to raise even the merest suspicion that I might have recognised them, and woe betide actually trying to say anything to them. Instead I pretend to look right through them, or the other way. As they pass I overhear a snippet of conversation, they’re wondering where to go for lunch, The Ivy is suggested. 

As they pass I turn to my fellow shelterer.

Did you see who just walked past?

That was Bob Geldof & Ian Hislop I add.

He remains unimpressed and can only muster a shake of the head & didn’t notice by way of reply.

The rain fizzles on, I look once again down the street and see more people, all finely dressed walking my way, more familiar faces. Helena Bonham-Carter doyenne of stage and screen in one small group, then a bloke in a raincoat – Ralph Fiennes, what on earth is going on here, why are so many A listers walking down this one street at this particular moment? It all seems rather surreal to see literally dozens of people that I’ve watched on the TV & at the Cinema for decades troupe past me in the rain.

I turn again to my scaffold companion and am about to say something but then realise that these folks mean nothing to him, why would they, he has more important concerns.

He turns towards me and asks, so how long have you been sleeping rough?

This makes me laugh out loud. The idea of being taken for a homeless person is rather funny, I look myself over, are my clothes really that bad I wonder? 

I tell him I’m not sleeping rough, not just yet anyway.

The rain peters out and we head in different directions, him who knows where, me to the Piazza. I walk under the pillared colonnade where the street acts usually ply their trade, at St.Pauls, aka The Actors Church there’s a note pinned to the railings, closed for private service.

Next to it another notice with the heading Memorial Service, Helen McCrory.

Of course, that’s why they were all here, her memorial service. 

A man walks out of the iron church gates carrying a guitar case.

I recognise him immediately, it’s Helens husband Damian Lewis. We don’t make eye contact, but I see his, fixed straight ahead, but somehow that gaze seems far away to me. Somewhere else entirely.

As he walks away I watch, a solitary figure, I wonder how his world feels to him right now?

On I walk as it begins to rain again.  I cant help but muse – the Homeless Guy – The A lister Glitterati – Me, the countless others walking in soggy London Town, the paths that intersect or almost meet sometimes for the briefest of moments & the cobble stones of Covent Garden worn smooth by centuries of footsteps and countless tales that pass this way.

But what about the Homeless Guy, he thought I was living on the street as well, that’s a sign.

It’s high time I went and bought some smart new clothes. It’s off to the shops for me.

This episode is also on Spotify, here’s a link: