An Angel's Wings

An Angel’s Wings

Christmas always seems so full of angels.  Christmas decorations, Christmas cards, Carols and much, much more. For some that’s where they stay, a seasonal tradition that fade and get packed away with the Christmas decorations on 12^th Night only to lie dormant until the next festive cycle.

Many will be familiar with the expression ‘Guardian Angel’ a term synonymous with a watchful higher power and a being or entity that keeps guard over us.  Yet like spies and undercover agents they often go unnoticed.  I once taught at a school that had a policy of ‘Guardian Angels’ fellow students who kept a secret watchful eye over others and reported back to a trusted member of staff.

Yet my mind is cast back over 50 years to Liverpool St Station, London.  The chaos of one of the busiest commuter stations in the UK was not necessarily confined to Christmas, but it certainly reached new levels of meaning at the so-called ‘festive period'.  The old corridors and access routes to the trains were punctuated by a nauseous ‘Hansel & Gretel’ trail of vomit as commuters unfamiliar with the phenomenon of the office party or lunchtime libations.  Dizzied by alcohol and an unfamiliar ‘bon amie’ their legs platted the way to what they hoped would be a rapidly sobering train journey back to their suburban recluses and safe havens from the ravages of the working day/week/year.

Michael was a tramp. I met him several times. He was for me a wingless angel.  A kind man who lived a the  station and watched as  many a dizzed commuter wove an uncertain pinball path to reach the sanctuary or a carriage compartment. It  was almost life and death for  them.  Woe betides anyone that barred their tunnel vision focus on their prize. Yet Christmas added another layer to this pinball-mayhem.  Michael watched with mild amusement as many an unsteady traveller tumbled the full length of the stairs, only to rise unsteadily to continue their unsteady rush for the 17.13 that meant precious minutes to them, but in reality sod all difference to life.  Michael took no pleasure in any suffering, but he smiled quietly as the Christmas chaos followed it’s yearly pattern.  As things quietened down he would retreat to his Whitechapel Hostel unscathed and unmoved by the futility of their self-induced anxieties and have a stress-free cup of warming tea.