Yesterday, I was approached by a man in a wheelchair. "Can you help me?" he asked, "I'm due at Bedford General in an hour to have my leg amputated." He showed me his leg, a suppurating, discoloured mess, and then the other one. "I need £14 for the train to get there. Can you help me? I'll give you my name and address, I'll pay you back."
So many thoughts went through my head.
"You don't need to pay me back."
I went and got the money he needed and gave it to him.
Was he scamming? I think he was, for a myriad of small tells in this very short, matter of minutes, interaction.
I wondered about the dreadful state of his legs and whether he would ever make it to a hospital. I wondered what had been going on in his life that had led to getting into such a condition.
I wondered at myself, how easy it was to hand over £14 and walk away, sick as I felt.
What had I been going to that was so important that I hadn't asked, "What's happened?" Or said, "Yes, I'll come with you to buy a ticket. Is there anything else you need?"
I cried on the escalators going down into the Underground.