Looking for Andrew (Journal 9)

Andrew has cracked a tooth.  I'm not surprised at this, as his teeth resemble a derelict graveyard.  However, he's battling on without the Nurofen I offered him at lunchtime, as he thinks it will only make things worse once the pain relief wears off.  I'm not sure of his logic there.  I hate going to the dentist's, so I'm not really shocked when Andrew says that one day he will have all of his teeth extracted and replaced with false ones.  To be honest, I've had the same idea myself.

In any case, this gives me yet another opportunity to test out the social welfare system and find it wanting.  Surprise, surprise - even if you can find a Dental Surgery that is taking on new NHS patients, which is unlikely, you can only register if you have a permanent address.  I therefore text Andrew the number of the NHS Emergency Dentist to use if the pain gets worse or his gum becomes infected.

Andrew's new friend seems to be having a good influence on him.  His mood has changed dramatically and so has his physical appearance.  I hardly recognised him today, when he turned up at the greasy spoon for a sausage sandwich.  He was wearing a clean tracksuit without any cigarette burns and was smiling through the toothache.  I told him he looked dapper and he said that he takes his new tracksuit off at night and smokes in his pyjamas, so as not to spoil it.

Tomorrow, his mate is going to treat him to a shave and a haircut, before he gets his passport photos taken for his new ID card.  He tells me he's having a "short back and sides with a tramline shaved in".  The biggest change is that Andrew now has hope - his friend was homeless and now isn't, so he can imagine the same future for himself.  His friend must also be able to give him advice about benefits and things, that I don't have a clue about, as he now has a plan to get a room above a shop and housing benefit.  Andrew is daring to dream of having his own home, with a kettle and some glass mugs from The Range.  For the first time since I met him, he is making plans.

It comes as no surprise to me that Andrew has an entrepreneurial bent.  Although he struggles with reading, he is very good at mental arithmetic, which he puts down to his interest in money.  He rubs his thumb and fingers together: "Numbers is money," he says.  Don't forget me when you're rich, I tell him.  I won't recognise you in ten years time, you'll be so swag.  He promises not to.  He tells me the most money he's ever had in his hand is five grand, which was compensation for falling down a hole and permanently injuring his back.  I wasted it, he says.  I can completely relate to this, as I can never hold on to money.  However, neither of us are as bad as one of Andrew's friends, who lost eight grand in a week betting on the horses.

He tries to find a photograph on his phone from two years ago; from before his Dad died and he was suddenly made homeless.  He says I wouldn't know him, as he was working full-time then and had all the trendy gear and a proper haircut.  You'll get all of that again, I say.  You're only young and things are going to change for the better.  So he tells me his dreams of running a business and owning some land, plus two pigs, two cows and some chickens.  He talks a bit about his Dad and I realise how devastating the bereavement has been for Andrew - he didn't just lose a father, he lost everything.

Today I've come bearing gifts of teabags, sugar and milk, plus an unopened jar of Nutella I found in the cupboard at home.  Not really the sort of present you should give someone with Diabetes, but it makes him happy and I get a "thank you for my bits" as we say goodbye.  See you when I see you, I say.  I think he may become less dependent on our greasy spoon lunches soon, although he'll probably still need me to nag him to go to the Doctor's.  My bank manager will be pleased, but I would definitely miss him.  We'll see.  If life has taught me one thing, it's that anything could happen next.