During the two weeks I spent recently in Wapping, I noticed that the extent of littering there is similar to that in my part of Plymouth. (Once you start, it becomes an obsession.) On returning home, I expected to find that my patch was in sore need of clearing up, but on my first outing the pickings were thin. Had someone else been on the case? I struck only one rich seam, by the bench in an overgrown corner of the park, where I found, amongst the cans, bottles and food wrappings, four discarded bras. It’s not unusual to come across abandoned underwear, but one can usually deduce a chain of events that preceded the act of disposal. In this case, however, I was stumped, though I continue to mull over a possible backstory that might be turned into a blockbuster movie script.
Meanwhile, with life settling into back-at-home routine, I awoke one fine morning and, all my chores and duties having been previously dispatched, looked forward to my reward – a day of self-indulgence. I was free to spend time – not money, for time is the ultimate luxury – on myself. What to do? Well, I have rather lost enthusiasm for kayaking since the unfortunate capsizing incident, so I turned to my trusty bike instead and tootled around town with no other aim in mind than to explore The Tool Shed, a shop that I had only ever admired from the pavement. I was not disappointed. This is an Aladdin’s cave of a manshop, comprehensively stocked with all things indispensable and staffed by blokes with a store of knowledge to match. My only disappointment was that I needed nothing, other than a couple of door-wedges at £1.99, for which I was not sure they would accept G-pay. They did, of course. Who carries cash these days?
It was time for coffee, so I went to a café-cum-gallery, an ex-industrial space that is roughly furnished with odd stools, benches and tables that are cool for young people with Apple Macs but essentially uncomfortable. Still, they do a good flat white, with oat ‘milk’, to which I have lately taken a liking. An elderly couple came in, he with a crutch supporting an injured foot. They seemed out of place as they looked in vain for an unoccupied table, then asked if they could share mine. “Of course,” I said, smiling to put them at ease. Still, they were unsettled until we started polite conversation. This was not their café of choice, but they had been invited to see the art. “What is ‘artisan bread’ anyway?” he said, nodding towards the counter where loaves were on offer. And so I told him. He was sceptical at first, but eventually decided to buy some and try it. “That’s good” said his wife. “I’ve got a pot of soup at home.” I may have won a convert.
The day was still young and, flushed with this small triumph in my lifelong campaign to discredit the industrial Chorleywood Bread Process, I tapped the pad to pay the £2.90 for my coffee, adjusted my trouser clips, donned my helmet and cycled to the newly re-built museum for a deeper look into Plymouth’s long history. A couple of hours later and a few facts wiser, it was time to leave and, as I passed one of the big perspex boxes of cash (which must have been planted) and notices asking for a £5 donation “to enable us to keep admission free”, I felt a rush of generosity. I presented my phone magnanimously to the conveniently positioned electronic payment pad, but did not hear the familiar payment ping. I tried again, but with no success. On the third try there was still no ping, but I noticed the display said, “payment successful”. When I checked my account it showed three payments of £5, ping or no ping. I am now torn between feeling obliged to make two more visits or simply relishing my magnanimity.
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