A Street Cat Named Bob

I couldn’t resist looking inside to see if there was any sign of the ticket officers who’d given me grief in the past. Sure enough, I saw one of them, a big, sweaty fat guy in a blue shirt. He was too tied up to notice me at this stage but I knew that he would at some point.

In the meantime, I got on with the job of trying to shift my ten copies of the Big Issue.

I knew they’d given me this pitch because, as far as normal Big Issue sellers were concerned, it was a nightmare. The entrance and exit of a tube station is not a place where people usually have the time to slow down and engage with someone trying to sell them something. They are in a hurry, they have got places to go, people to see. A normal Big Issue seller would have done well to stop one in every thousand people that raced past him or her. It would have been a thankless task. During my time busking across the street, I’d spent enough time watching a succession of vendors try and fail to catch people’s attention there to know the reality.

But I also knew that I wasn’t a normal Big Issue seller. I had a secret weapon, one that had already cast his spell on Covent Garden. And he was soon weaving his magic.

I’d put Bob down on the pavement next to me where he was sitting contentedly watching the world go by. A lot of people didn’t notice him as they flew past on their mobile phones, fishing inside their pockets for their tickets. But a lot of people did.

Within moments of me setting up, a couple of young American tourists had pulled up to a halt and started pointing at Bob.

‘Aaaah,’ one of them said, immediately reaching for her camera.

‘Do you mind if we take a picture of your cat?’ the other one asked.

‘Sure, why not?’ I said, pleased that, unlike so many people, they’d had the decency to ask. ‘Would you like to buy a copy of the Big Issue while you’re at it. It will help him and me get some dinner tonight.’

‘Oh sure,’ the second girl said, looking almost ashamed that she’d not thought of it.

‘It’s no problem if you don’t have the money,’ I said. ‘It’s not compulsory.’

But before I could say anything else she’d given me a five-pound note.

‘Oh, I’m not sure I’ve got any change. I’ve literally just started,’ I said, feeling flustered myself now. I know a lot of people think Big Issue sellers routinely say this, but I genuinely didn’t have much in my pockets. When I counted it out, I had just under a pound in shrapnel in my pocket and handed that over to her.

‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘Keep the change and buy your cat something nice to eat.’

As the American girls left, another group of tourists passed by, this time Germans. Again, they started cooing over Bob. They didn’t buy a magazine, but it didn’t matter.

I knew already that I’d have no trouble selling the ten copies. In fact, I might even be heading back to Sam for some more stock before the end of the day.

Sure enough I sold six copies within the first hour. Most people gave me the correct money but one elderly gent in a smart, tweed suit, gave me a fiver. I was already feeling vindicated in making this move. I knew I wouldn’t always fare this well and that there would be ups and downs. But I already felt like I’d taken a big step in a new direction.

It had been a pretty good day already, but the icing on the cake came after I’d been there for about two and a half hours. By now I was down to my last two magazines. I was suddenly aware of a bit of a commotion inside the station. All of a sudden a small group of London Underground staff appeared in the concourse in full view of me. They seemed to be deep in conversation about something and one or two of them were on walkie-talkies.

My mind couldn’t help going back to what had recently happened to me. I wondered whether there had been another incident and whether some other poor sap was going to be fitted up for a crime that he hadn’t committed.

Whatever the panic was, however, it soon passed and they began to disperse. It was then that the large, sweaty figure of the ticket attendant spotted me and Bob outside the station. He immediately marched in our direction.

He looked hassled and hot tempered and was as red as a beetroot in the face. They say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, so I decided to stay cool.

‘What the f*** are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d been locked up. You know you’re not supposed to be here.’

I didn’t say anything at first. Instead, very slowly and deliberately, I flashed him my Big Issue badge.

‘I’m just doing my job, mate,’ I said, savouring the mixture of bewilderment and anger that immediately began spreading across his face. ‘I suggest you get on with yours.’

Chapter 13 Pitch Perfect