A Street Cat Named Bob

I was really upset by this. I’d come such a long way. I’d made such a huge effort to fit into the Big Issue family in Covent Garden. I’d explained time and again what was happening with Bob, but it made no difference. It would go in one ear and straight back out the other.

So, as I say, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Sam broke the news about my having to go to head office. But it still left me reeling.

I walked away from Covent Garden dazed and not a little confused. I really didn’t know what to do now that I was on the ‘Naughty List’.

That night me and Bob ate our dinners then went to bed early. It was getting cold and, with the financial situation looking bleak, I didn’t want to waste too much electricity. So while Bob curled up at the foot of the bed, I huddled under the covers trying desperately to work out what to do next.

I had no idea what the suspension meant. Could it mean that I would be banned for good? Or was it simply a slap on the wrists? I had no idea.

As I lay there, memories came flooding back of how my busking had been unfairly brought to an end. I couldn’t bear the thought of being denied a livelihood by other people’s lies a second time.

It seemed even more unfair this time. I hadn’t got into any trouble until now, unlike a lot of the Big Issue vendors I’d seen around Covent Garden who were often breaking rules and getting told off by Sam and the other coordinators.

I knew about one guy who was notorious with all the sellers. He was this big, brash cockney geezer, a very intimidating character; he would growl at people in a really threatening voice. He’d frighten women, in particular, by going up to them and saying: ‘Come on, darling, buy a magazine.’ It was almost as if he was threatening them. ‘Buy one, or else . . .’

Apparently he used to roll the magazine up and then slip it into people’s bags as they were walking past. I’d also heard that he would then stop them and say: ‘That will be two pounds, please’ and then follow them until they gave him money to go away. That kind of thing doesn’t help anyone. Most of the time the victims would simply toss the papers into the nearest bin. It wasn’t even as if the money was going to a good cause. This brute of a man was said to be a gambling addict and other sellers said that all he did was pump it straight back into fruit machines.

He had obviously broken so many of the basic rules it was ridiculous, yet as far as I knew, he’d never been disciplined.

Whatever misdemeanours I had supposedly committed, it didn’t compare to that. And it was the first time I’d been accused of anything. Surely that would count in my favour? Surely it wasn’t a question of one strike and you’re out? I simply didn’t know. Which was why I was beginning to panic.

The more I thought about it, the more confused and helpless I felt. But I knew I couldn’t just do nothing. So the following morning I decided to head out as normal and simply try another coordinator in a different part of London. It was a risk, I knew that, but I figured it was one that was worth taking.

As a Big Issue seller you learn that there are coordinators all over town, around Oxford Street, King’s Cross and Liverpool Street, in particular. You get to know the whole network. So I decided to chance my arm over at Oxford Street where I’d met a couple of people in the past.

I arrived at the stall mid-morning and tried to make the situation as low-key as possible. I flashed my badge and bought a pile of twenty papers. The guy there was wrapped up in other things so barely registered me. I didn’t hang around long enough to give him the chance. I simply headed for a spot where there was no sign of anyone else selling and took my chances.

I felt sorry for Bob in all this. He was quite nervous and seemed disoriented, and understandably so. He liked routine, he thrived on stability and predictability. He didn’t take kindly to chaos once more re-entering his life. Nor did I, to be honest. He must have been wondering why our normal routine had been so suddenly and inexplicably changed.

I managed to sell a decent number of magazines that day - and did the same the following day. I moved locations all the time, imagining that the Big Issue outreach team was on the lookout for me. I knew it was illogical and slightly mad, but I was paranoid, terrified that I was going to lose my job.

I had images of me being hauled in front of some committee and being stripped of my badge and cast out. ‘Why is this happening to us?’ I said to Bob as we headed back on the bus one evening. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. Why can’t we get a break?’ I resigned myself to having to spend the next few weeks taking my chances in other parts of London, hoping that the coordinators didn’t know I was persona non grata.

I was sitting under a battered old umbrella on a street somewhere near Victoria Station late on a Saturday afternoon when I finally told myself that I had made a mistake. Well, to be honest, it was Bob who told me.