The Bond

More begging letters.  All good causes, of course. One urges me to ‘fight for every heartbeat’, another invites me to raise funds for water filters in desperate, densely populated villages.  A letter last week wanted donations to dogs in distress. Or was it donkeys?  So much paper, so many disasters…Must care harder.

Once, 62 years ago, I carried a large radio through the streets of another city. The radio was in a cardboard box hard to reach around. My mother and I were between addresses. Homeless – till the council found us a hostel. So if I cross the road to avoid the local seller of Big Issue it’s only because it’s not my kind of magazine and he will keep shouting.  My charities are direct debits like the bills for gas and electricity and council tax. I’m not middle class for nothing.

The shopping basket of the month included books about paths and paving and Unity Mitford, a pop-up laundry hamper, a yellow scarf for all seasons and a pair of foldable shoes called Tipsy Feet. The best buy was a real investment piece. A successor to Tessa – the tax-free special savings account named after me and a companion for Isa. A brand new Bond. Just for pensioners. (An exclusive touch)  Taxable, it’s true – but with a bonus. Guaranteed Growth. No shrinking!  Gigi.

Lift the lid of the wheelie bin. All the letters go into the blue, to be recycled. Keep a few of the envelopes – handy for putting cash in to pay the other deserving, like the Shelf Man, or for writing reminders or shopping lists.

Waste not, want not.

One thought on “The Bond

  1. I’ve read them all, twice. I like the intimacy of close observation and the selectivity of your careful description. Is it the Booker prize next!? I could hear your voice. Maurice.

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