Beggar lady
Croched on the harsh damp, dank plateform of Kings Cross station, spliting a soggle ciggerete
with a lover. This Sunday night is full of rejected drunks, and for once, we are not quite the most intoxicated; nor are we the the worst smelling. Late night, unsettled foreigns blank us —a couple smile. We are spreading our wore down ,cold bodies in a attempt to get comfortable, amusing ourself with the stumbling travellers deal with the train doors.
Thsi is when I first saw her! She shuffles across the plateform with the final of her willpower. Her blue sweatpants are almost worn through , and her feet are wedged into city stained trainer form clearly two different types brands. On her face you could see the lines that had been worn out by tears.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. I stared at her withered face and contmplating what got her to such a shitty situation ; that I'm too cold to move , and all I'm doing is waiting for the train to start up again.
She produced her weak, pursed palm.
I looked in my purse but we have nothing she woudl want.
The darkeness of the architecture engulfed her ragged, pitiful frame.
I search in my bags for a packat of fags. My body convusrse, almost like it is beggin me to find warth.. I feel myself trying to slip into a slumber, but the stone cold floor drags me back.
Then for seemly no reason the old lady returns. Her wrinkled hand, tired of begging, had tracked us down.
Unexpectectetly she dropped a shinny pound coin into my hand and said, " get something warm in ya. Chin up your be home soon."