I was leaving my mum’s place, having just cut her hair, when I was struck by the words written on a piece of slate hanging from a shrub in her garden:

Think deeply,                                                                                                               Laugh loudly,                                                                                                          Be kind,                                                                                                                     And give freely

It made me think of my mother, how kind and thoughtful is, and how those words so aptly apply to the way she lives her life. Then I felt a pang of guilt over something that occurred last week when I was hurrying home one evening; an agitated woman of about forty stopped me and asked for eighty pence.

“Sorry, I haven’t got my purse on me,” I answered, believing it to be true at the time (and grateful to able to answer thus); but, in the time it takes to make two steps, I remembered that my purse was in my knapsack after all and I experienced the first tug of guilt.

“She probably wants it for drink or drugs,” I assuaged myself and carried on walking and thinking.

It had seemed to me that eighty pence was a carefully considered amount to ask for, obviously deemed to appear not too much – less than a pound, which sounds a pittance – and yet, almost a pound, which still has some value. The woman had turned away sharply at my response – any hint of good manners had gone and her eyes darted around for the next person to badger; I was nothing to her but a soft touch. Never-the-less, I regretted not going back with my purse.

Walking home from my mother’s house my thoughts moved on to the audio book “Down and Out in Paris and London” by George Orwell, to which I had been listening yesterday afternoon whilst I painted morning glory (the blue convolvulus that grows wild and profusely in my homeland of Australia). I cried and laughed (there is always wry humour to be found in dire circumstances) through the account of Orwell’s own experience of poverty.

Still deep in thought about toerags (the rags that hobos put between their toes to prevent them from rotting, apparently – didn’t know that until yesterday!) I reached the main road which runs past our terrace and which still has traffic lights holding up the traffic because of the new cycle-path being constructed. The oncoming cars were at a standstill while the left-hand lane was moving. Suddenly my reverie was rudely interrupted by a loud wolf whistle. Startled, I nearly jumped out of my skin and looked across the road – one of my handsome old admirers was driving by with his window down. I laughed, as did the truck driver stuck behind the red light, and the old couple in the car behind him. Just as I reached our gate another smiling face behind a steering wheel blew me kisses – Ashley Thorn (as Scarlet O’hara would have said in her Southern drawl, “Oh Ashley, Ashley, I love you!”) – one of the nicest men you could meet. With much merriment I returned his kisses with exaggerated gestures (I do love him… in the right way!) and the people in the two cars behind him laughed.

As I walked in through my studio entrance my mind went back to the lady who had asked for eighty pence and it dawned on me what to answer if anybody ever asks again for such a paltry amount…

“Is eighty pence enough?”