I don't know why I started talking to Kevin. I don't normally talk to beggars. 

They irritate me with their threadbare clothes, their hunched, abject, hopeless appearance and their miserable, underfed dogs-on-a-string. They make me feel angry and guilty at the same time.

What can I do about it? I know that anything I give them will just go to feed their drink or drug habit. What use is that? And yet every time I see them, the regular ones in my neighbourhood that is, the ones with the established pitches and doorways, they're always worse than the time before: a little thinner, dirtier, madder. Little by little, slipping down the slippery slope and then one day they're gone. I don't even want to think about the lives they lead. How can I enjoy myself when so many other people are miserable? Why do they inflict their hopelessness on me?

But then I think, how can I think such thoughts. I am so privileged compared to them. That's why I set-up a direct debit: to protect myself. Every month I pay a small sum to a homeless charity. It makes me feel better. Sometimes I even tell them that I already give to a homeless charity. You should see their faces. Most of them are ever so humble, like they accept their place in the gutter. They're the ones that should be angry.
And some of them are, aggressive begging it's called, like the smarter version of unemployed graduates with their clipboards demanding money for charity. I've taken out a direct debit to protect me from them as well. Every month a little dribble of money goes to children who have lost limbs from land mines, villages in India who need water and I recently sponsored a child in Africa. I can now walk past this new breed of institutional beggars with a firm smile. 'I already give to charity.' They nod and smile, they let me pass, they know they can't touch me. But the aggressive homeless beggar, limping and trailing his blanket, he gets to me. He doesn't smile. And why should he? He's desperate.

But Kevin wasn't like that. He wasn't desperate or hopeless. He was like the Zen master of street begging. Polite and well mannered, he sat outside the wholefood shop on the High Street on his little folding chair, playing his guitar. He wore a corduroy hat like Donovan or the young Dylan and he sang his own songs. He reminded me of better days when all the world's problems were going to be solved by protest songs and love songs and fighting in the street. 

The funny thing was that the Stones were all nice middle-class kids who pretended to be angry while the Beatles were from working class backgrounds but ponced around in identical romper suits designed by Hardy Amies or some designer who also dressed the Queen. In other words, Kevin reminded me of better, more optimistic times. And he had a story. Something about his wife dying young, and him taking to drink but the music had saved him. Now he was playing to raise money for his friend who used to sell the Big Issue in the nearby doorway. I remember the friend. He always wore a long overcoat, rain or shine, his hair was greasy, his mouth full of broken teeth and he swayed slightly as if he might fall over at any time. He probably danced to the Stones in his youth and showed sympathy for the devil.

Now it was payback time. Frankly he looked all in, washed-up. Fucked. And that's how he
ended. Two heart attacks in the hospital, according to Kevin, and nothing left in the kitty to pay for a funeral, so he was singing his songs to raise money to send his friend off properly with all the trimmings; Van Morrison and Celtic music at the crematorium.
And I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Here was someone I could give to. It made me feel good. It reminded me of the old days. The summer of love.

That was why I was disappointed to find someone else in his place yesterday. The usual homeless beggar type with a dog-on-astring stretched out beside him. When I asked him where Kevin was he just snorted. 'That bullshitter - we got rid of 'im.' 'I thought he was collecting for his friend's funeral?' 'And you believed him? The funeral was two weeks ago and he never even showed up. You know what he told me?'  I shook my head still trying to fit what he was saying with the Kevin I knew. He mimicked Kevin's soft accent, ' "I was there in spirit".' He suddenly spat.' If he had stayed around we would have kicked his head in. Fucking bullshitter.'

I left quickly. I didn't want to stay around. Somehow I felt let down by Kevin. How could he be such a hypocrite? I suppose you say anything to survive. Who am I to judge? You can never tell what people are really thinking. And it makes me anxious. I want to take out a direct debit against all these anxious and angry thoughts. I don't want to end up homeless or killing someone. There are some things a direct debit can't protect you from. Like yourself.

So if you see me on the street, sitting on my little folding chair, singing songs of love and peace; please give generously. Don't ask questions. Remember we all do what we have to. Only the strong survive.