Four or more is a good day

Four or more is a good day

I wonder if these people notice me. Would they care if they did. Does
it matter that they don't.
That lady by the steps, she looks nice enough. Her jeans and coat are
clean, expensive looking and I think they are fashionable. Not that I
know much about it. The little girl with her has beautiful, gingery,
red curls that frame her face and make her look like an angel. I bet
she's not though, she looks like she's spoilt.

Oh dear she's crying. She wants more bird seed to feed the pigeons and
the jeans lady won't let her have any more.
She's having a paddy now and making so much noise even the wildlife
have been frightened away.

The jeans lady looks like a Sarah to me. She has the little girl so
tight by the hand her fingers are going blue. I don't blame her, the
way things are today. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen and
what can happen to a child. The little girl must be Sarah's daughter,
I'm sure I heard her call Sarah Mummy. The little angel's gone all pink
in the face and her eyes have gone red and come out on stalks. I knew I
was right, a devil in disguise.

It's a bit cold today, I wear odd gloves you know. Well one day I found
a sheepskin glove (well it's a mitten actually), over by one of the
lions, and so I wore it on my right hand on Mondays, Wednesdays and
Fridays, then on my left Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and alternate
Sundays. I did that for about a month then I found a black knitted one
in the ladies toilet, and every finger has a different colour, as the
sheepskin one was the warmest I stuck to my routine so that each hand
would have a chance to be really warm.

Oh hell, I'm going to have to hide, there's more of those Japanese
tourists. When they first asked me if they could take my photograph I
thought it was a laugh, then I decided to ask them for money and it was
great, now they want me to tell them my life story and I can't be
having with all that, anyway now that Maggie the bag knocked my two
front teeth out I hate smiling.

They seem to think it strange for a woman to be a tramp, well that's
what most ordinary people call me, the politicians call me
under-privileged, and those do gooder's call me a down and out or a
homeless person. I have never seen myself as a tramp, a tramp is a
prostitute in my book, I am not, never have been, or ever will be a
prostitute.

These Japanese eat raw fish you know. I can't be having mixing with
people who eat raw fish. Cold left over's wrapped in newspaper, thrown
away in the rubbish, outside the fish and chip shop fish is ok , well
at least it's cooked and if I'm really lucky it's still warm .

There's Malcolm, well I call him Malcolm, he comes here every day at
lunch time, he has his sandwiches by the fountain come rain or shine,
he's even been known to share them, ...oh not with me, with the
pigeons! I hate pigeons. Those horrible creatures, vermin with
feathers. Do you know they get more food than I do, and what do they
contribute to this country, nothing, nothing but poop!!

They've pooped on poor old Nelson and those lions for years and anybody
else who gets in the way. What do they get, do they get spat on, no..
or pushed away, no... they get fed.

People think that they are a national treasure, they've been here for
years they say. So has TB but I wouldn't entertain it on my hand. They
pass on diseases faster than Ho Wang's Chinese take away burger van, on
Tottenham Court Road.

I on the other hand sit quietly by the side of the road, minding my own
business. I certainly don't poop on anyone, but do I get fed? I should
cocoa not even a stale sausage.

Anyway, where was I, oh yes, Malcolm. He wears a business suit every
day, he works in the National Portrait Gallery. I try to sneak in there
to keep warm, but I've only ever got away with it once.

I don't know what he does there but he looks too young to be of
importance.
He strikes me as the nervous type, I said "hello" to him once and he
almost ran back to the gallery in fear for his life. Just because I
don't wear designer clothes, it doesn't make me a bad person.

I know, I know, I suppose just because he's young doesn't mean he's not
on the board of directors, but I bet I'm right.

The best present anyone ever gave me was a great big feather duvet.
This really nice young lady stopped her car, a Mercedes I think it was,
and gave it to me when she saw me sitting in Marks and Spencer's door
way.

I fold it up every morning and carry it in my bag on wheels, I can tell
you some stories about the fights I've had trying to keep hold of it.
It was the reason Maggie the bag punched my teeth out but Rosie looked
after me. She bit Maggie on her fat backside and she screamed all the
way up The Strand. I heard she went to the hospital and they gave her a
tetanus injection. To add insult to injury, they said that she needn't
have worried as she must have come into contact with every bacteria
known to man and invented some as well I shouldn't wonder.

Rosie's my terrier dog, she's with me day and night. If we have food we
both eat, if not we both go hungry.

I've tried to train her to catch pigeons, not to eat them you
understand, just to get our own back, but they're always too fast for
her. She only has three legs after getting knocked down by a taxi in
Piccadilly Circus.

We have this game Rosie and me. If one pigeon gets squished in a day,
we shelter in the park. If two pigeons get squished, we shelter at the
back of Charing Cross Station. If three get it we sleep in Marks and
Spencer's and if four or more get it, we settle down at the back of the
Savoy Hotel no less. That's if we don't get moved on.

My duvet was a three squished night, but we like the four or more
nights because we always get a cup of tea and something hot to eat from
Mavis in the kitchens.

Oh well! I must be going now, can't stand here all day, things to do,
people to see. It's started raining anyway so I'd better find myself a
spot at the Savvy and wait for me cuppa. Then Rosie and me can snuggle
up and keep each other warm.

Oh yes four or more is a good day.