You stand before me while I sit. There is a bounty beside me – plump green oranges in a wasteful bag. You hold out a bowl, faded green and washed out; a scattering of change rattles. Your hands are busy: shaking the bowl, supporting your child. His eyes are being eaten by sleep as the flies touch down.
What good does money do? It’s the London dilemma that always shames me as I look away, harbouring a childhood of advice about not giving money to the homeless on the street - does the money really go on food and shelter, or does it nurse some other essential habit? Better to offer a cup of tea. And don’t get too close!
I force myself to return your gaze. Does money nurture you? Does it give you the freedom to choose what you eat, what your child eats? Or is some Fagin looming nearby, seeking to own or possess your pockets, waiting to sift through the loot?
I place an orange in the bowl and do not know if it is enough, if it will satisfy. I add an orange for the boy, and receive a grateful smile. Money isn’t always the answer, but it raises the question: Is it enough to eat what you’re given?
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