Tramp Dreams on Newtington Butts

My companions are fast asleep on either side of me while I ponder yet again on how I have ended up here; homeless and almost hopeless but not without moments of lucid reflection. Once upon a time we would have been called tramps but that title has long gone out of fashion and now not applied to washed up drunks with no fixed abode. At Christmas, however, we have a warm berth and hot food kindly supplied by well meaning people who seem to enjoy our company although I can’t for the life of me understand why. Perhaps it’s charity or some romantic notion that despite our destitution we are free from the constraints which burden their lives to such an extent that they would rather be somebody else. It appears that our predicament gives their lives some meaning so we both end up as winners. An odd equation from my perspective as the grunts and farts and sighs and snoring accompanies my ruminations.

As I wonder about the people surrounding me I also speculate on a completely useless nugget of information relating to our location. Our Christmas shelter is just a few hundred yards from where the most celebrated poet tramp W. H. Davies, Super-Tramp himself, stayed on a visit to London when he was beginning to become famous as a writer while down the road is the area where Charlie Chaplin hailed from. Charlie Chaplin, of course, found fame appearing as a little tramp but never really was a vagabond while Davies was the real thing.

And me and my companions are the real thing but most of us would rather be something else if only we knew how. We do have time to stand and stare but it doesn’t bring us comfort or understanding.