Wednesday 30 June 2010

Exchange of courtesies

Once again I'm ensconced on the stealth sofa in St Pancras, awaiting my allotted departure. There is a faint huff of chilled air occasionally which I hoover up.

On the bus trip here I took a pew next to a chap with crutches in the 'give up your seat for people with disabilities' row. Two stops later a man with a walking stick boards and I stand and offer my seat which he gratefully accepts. I grab a spot standing next to the luggage rack where I put my rucksack. A little later the man with the walking stick lets me know he's getting off at the next stop, which is really good of him, although I decline the offer of my seat back as I tell him I'm ok standing as long as I don't have to hold the bag.

A simple exchange of courtesies between folks who need a bit of extra consideration, which we rarely get from the masses. It put me in a happy mood, whereas I normally feel sorely tried by public transport - simultaneously vulnerable, angry, and defensive.

Yesterday there was a drunk at the bus stop in a wheelchair. His appearance screamed homeless, whether the need for a wheelchair was genuine I couldn't say (I don't think being inebriated counts.)

When the bus arrived it lowered and extended the ramp for him to board. I was totally unsurprised to see him lose his balance on the ramp, ending up with the front wheels in the air and the back of the wheelchair on the floor.

The driver was muttering about having seen him drunk earlier in the day across town, and was clearly having nothing to do with helping the guy out.

I boarded the bus, unwilling to go to the assistance of an alcoholic (that would be baggage as a result of the ex), and besides I'm under medical instructions not to do any heavy lifting with my bad arm.

Some good Samaritans did go to his aid and got his chair back on all four wheels and up the ramp.

Did he turn to booze because of a disability? Was he able bodied and the chair just a prop? Was he a disabled war veteran with post-traumatic stress syndrome? Was he homeless? Was he an alcoholic? Was he suffering a mental illness?

If a respectably presented wheelchair user had lost their balance and ended up with their legs in the air and the chair on its back I would have rushed in to help, never mind the ban on heavy lifting. We all make decisions about who deserves our assistance: giving up a seat, putting money in a charity box, or getting someone back upright. Is anyone truly undeserving of our help? Can we help everyone?

'I ask you, what am I? I'm one of the undeserving poor, that's what I am. Now think what that means to a man. It means that he's up against middle-class morality for all of time. If there's anything going, and I puts in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: "you're undeserving, so you can't have it." But my needs is as great as the most deserving widows that ever got money out of six different charities in one week for the death of the same 'usband. I don't need less than a deserving man, I need more! I don't eat less 'earty than 'e does, and I drink, oh, a lot more. I'm playin' straight with you. I ain't pretendin' to be deserving. No, I'm undeserving. And I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it and that's the truth.'

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