There's a man who sits outside the Catholic Bookshop on Lonsdale Street
every day. He is homeless, thin, unkept, and must lead a miserable
existance. I can't help but wonder how he came to be there. Surely at some
point in his life he had a home, a family, a job of some sort? What sad and
destructive path must a man follow to lose all he has, and end up on
Lonsdale Street with a backpack and a handful of other people's spare
change? I often think of stopping to talk to him - to find out, to make him
feel like someone cares, to take him out for lunch! But something stops me.
I gave him money once and told him to have a good day. Then I realised what
a hollow and pointless thing that was to say. But it was too late, I had
already turned the corner, he was out of sight.