Giving

A few weeks ago, one Saturday I called into our local shop to get Milk and Papers on the way back from walking Mut.  Our shop is like most small convenience stores packed with essentials and also things you think you'd like but don't really need.  There is the normal freezer section purveying high cholesterol; lip smacking; tastebud satisfying garbage.  Fresh fruit and veg sit in green plastic boxes, slowly loosing their colour and goodness.  Salad line up in neat rows of plastic sealed bags giving the semblance of healthy living.  Near the checkout next to the chocolate temptations are a fine selection of popular beers; wines and spirits, priced to suite all manor of budgets.  The extra strong ciders are pitifully inexpensive, so £4.00 will get you well on your way!  There is a "Top Shelf" which if your not familiar with the term means there are some "Soft" and not so "Soft Porn " magazines available sitting on the top of the Magazine Stand.  Strangely enough I have never seen anyone buy one, maybe it's a village thing.  I did see a Woman in a Shop in the City once snatch one down from the heights, She flicked through it muttering "disgusting, disgusting" and promptly bought it. I was well impressed........

Anyway back to my local shop, stepping outside balancing my selections while fumbling for the Car Keys I couldn't help but notice an old man standing behind my car, he was wrinkly with a slight stoop, large cauliflower ears suggesting that either he played Rugby in his youth or his Mother didn't like him much and use to pull him around by whichever ear was closest to seize. He had his slippers on with the backs of the slippers crushed under each heel, no doubt forcing him to shuffle when he walked.  Pyjamas bottoms peaked from under the brown trousers almost touching the slippers. The trousers hitched to belly button were held up by a thick, worn, once black belt with a tarnished scratched buckle.  A yellow, musty stained round neck vest covered his top half with an "Old Mans" beige raincoat that had long since past it's sell by date completing the ensemble, all the buttons appeared to be missing so it hung from the bent shoulders, flapped in the wind with the coats' belt pointing away from the way he had come like kite stings twisting and kinking in a breeze.  It was clear he had ether had just got out of bed or he had given up on the conventions of life and was doing his own thing.  He was frantically searching his pockets and kept saying "Oh bollocks, bollocks, bollocks".  I caught his eye, the ferreting in his pockets slowed to the odd twitch. Pulling out his right hand he rubbed his white haired stubbly nonexistent chin and ruefully smiled.  "I've left me dosh (money) on the cabinet, what a dick". He then cried out "ha" and pulled out some loose change with his left hand, a couple seconds of counting and his face fell "bollocks, bollocks" he said with some angst.  "Got to go back" he started to turn into the wind, clearly not relishing his return journey.  "How much are you short" I asked.  "60 pence" he said.  Reaching into my pocket I located a pound and offered it to him.  He looked a bit taken aback before gratefully picking it from my open palm.  I thought he was going to bite it just to see if it was real.   He then started to offer to leave a pound behind the till the following day so I could get my money back. Feeling a bit more nobel and self righteous than I should I made the grand gesture of telling him to keep it (what a saint!).  I left him shaking his head as he entered the shop.  It was only later I wondered if he was shaking his head in grateful happiness that he'd been spared a long repeat walk or was it "There's one born every minute". I'm not sure which, he is a locally known rogue.  Either way it made me feel good about myself so it was worth the pound!

It just goes to show it's better to give than receive,  is that why Mistress is so happy!
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