The Big Issue...

I wrote this in July, as I was beginning to descend.

‘Hey,’ she calls.  I cannot ignore her because I know that she is calling to me.  I don’t feel much like interacting with her today.  I don’t feel much like interacting with anyone. But I have ventured outside of my small world overlooking the boutique, value shop and butchery.

‘Hello,’ I say.  ‘How are you?’

I anticipate her answer which rarely changes, ‘Tired.’

And my July writing stopped, dead in its tracks.

This is now.

The above was a snippet of a conversation I regularly have with Veronica.  I’d say that Veronica was at that stage, if not my best friend in Blandford, my only female, on first name terms, person.  Since writing this little snippet I have met Mandy (the charity shop lady), my art teacher, the lady I sit beside and opposite during the lesson, and also the one who guides the writing group I have joined in the library.  But I don’t run into any of them with the same regularity as Veronica.   She stands beneath the archway leading to Morrisons, my closest supermarket.  It’s a good place to stand, as it is within a busy concourse and also sheltered by the elements. 

Shoppers are very much faced with a Billy Goats Gruff troll like person, who though never gruff, jumps up, as we make our way from one pasture to another with greetings of ‘Big Issue Madam?’  (Strangely, in writing this, it has occurred to me that she targets us women more; food for thought.)

There is no threat that she will eat us up, although she epitomises much of what I fear.  I also take her downcast, doe like eyes with simultaneous sigh and, ‘God bless you,’ very personally when I have determined that £2 means more to me, in my pocket, than it does to her.  Her largesse, in bestowing God’s blessing on me, notwithstanding my lack of purchase, rankles and pricks.  So on my darkest days, I do my very best to avoid her exhorting cheer. 

This avoidance which involves a circuitous and deliberate route, several blocks out of my way invariably leaves me feeling guilty.  The exit from the passageway leading from our flat also makes it difficult for me to go undetected, so there is an added dimension of angst and stealth, neither emotion comfortable.  Finally, I am also, when I manage to escape detection, bereft of at least some conversation with anyone other than my cyber friends and Veronica is normally, if not full of genuine bonhomie, making a valiant effort at wheedling charm and urging the indolent shopping public, who are failing, miserably, to avail themselves of her wares!  

In April, before my fall into deep depression, we had a conversation about babies and children and how many she had and established, categorically, the reason why  her reply, is always, ‘Tired,’ when I ask her how she is. 

‘Five children,’ she explained.  ‘Eight, six, four, two, eight months,’ she continued, taking out a couple of dog-eared photographs, to show me the evidence. 

‘Why so many?’ I asked.

‘Catholic.’

That made some sense to me.

‘Why do you have so many gold fillings,’ I press.

She grabs hold of my hand and explains, pointing to my wedding band that her apparent fillings are a visible, declaration of her husband’s love and commitment, much the same as my ring.  

It reminded me that the practise of religion with its inherent rubric has much to answer for.  I remain convinced that the Pope has no care for, or consideration of the Veronica’s of this world, who continue to produce children when their bodies and budgets are spent.  At the same time, I do not hold Veronica accountable for following the regulations of man’s interpretation of her God’s intentions for how she should conduct her life, although it is hard not to get personal. 

I did, however, say that I was sure that her God would not want to know that she was so exhausted.  She explained that she was looking into getting an implant but that her husband did not want it.  (It wasn’t easy; we falter along, her in broken English, but somehow manage to get there in the end).

 I said that it was very likely that whilst she was dragging herself up to feed infants during the night, he was snoring.  She laughed like a drain at my parody and we held onto one another under the arch, like a pair of cackling crones.

When I had emerged sufficiently from my funk to tackle her head on, whether I felt I could justify the £2 spend, or not, and be comfortable with either, I asked her how she was getting on with her implant. 

‘Oh, no, when I go doctor, too late, me baby,’ she indicated her sixth pregnancy by rubbing her belly with a wary smile. 

‘You have double buggy?’ she cocks her head, with an extra hard smile.

‘No, I bloody well, don’t have a double buggy!  I wish I did, I wish more than anything my husband and I felt we could have afforded another child!!!’ I think but don’t say.

 It is very difficult not to get angry, not necessarily with her, but with society in general, for not helping to intervene with some dissembling of religious creed.  And before anyone squeals about rights and responsibilities, having lived beneath the mantle of religiosity, which found me doling out respect to men, merely because they were, I believed, closer to my then God, than I could ever be, I am afraid that I am guilty, too, of restricting and limiting much of my thought and activity, in mistaken belief.   

I have behaved or not behaved, strangled by indoctrination, which saw me identifying with a long haired, hippy God man, living in hope that the layer of protective, prayer cotton wool, which I cloaked my experience in, would save me from the acute manner in which I experience life.  When I was not using prayer, clearly stated, rational, specific and defined, in accordance with the churches guidelines, within its walls, I was on my knees, alone, stripped bare, naked, bereft of all comfort, begging, screaming, pleading and crying out for some mercy and relief from my pain. 

 I did believe, then, that somehow my anguish would be heard and that there would be some divine intervention to deliver me from the absolute sense of abandonment I felt.   In respect of that, my prayers were, perhaps, answered, not in relief, but by a long and circuitous route, over almost a decade, leading me away from fish oil, reiki, meditation, white chestnut, aconite, rescue remedy, Kava Kava, St John’s wort, anti mercury homeopathy concoctions and melatonin, to medication that actually works, for me.   

I am still not entirely sure that I have chucked that well versed, practised veil, because though I have begun to question more and more the existence of a God, I still find it impossible not to be overawed by the random set of events that made the world what it is and which resulted in our collective consciousness that makes me, me and you the reader, you.    But I do feel that perhaps, I am coming to terms with a broader understanding of my existence, which resides outside of my infantile understanding about values, codes of conduct, love, forgiveness, hope and faith and my childlike need for a cuddly, cotton wool coating.    

None of this is to say that I only wanted the happy clappy part of religiosity.  I am relieved, since I no longer practise any form of organised religion, that I no longer find myself within the cycle of Lent.  Self denial, shame, regret, self flagellation and ultimate desire for forgiveness for, amongst other things, my dependence, human failing and my part in bringing such pain and humiliation to another.  It’s a lovely feeling! 

But I do have real respect for Veronica, who makes the journey from where she lives, by bus, every day, with or without her additional physical load, day in, day out, to ply her Big Issue trade with variable tenacity.  There are days when she too, seems less able to find the wellspring of energy that presses one and all to please, please buy a magazine. 

It is also fair to say that her, ‘friendship, ’is weighted on the fickle side, because she is as friendly with everyone else as she is with me.  I have witnessed the reason the photograph of her children is so well thumbed, because she produces it regularly.  She will also drop any conversation we’re having, like a hot potato, if she sees another Billy Goat Gruff lady, trip, trip, tripping along her little bridge!

Whenever I do spend the £2, though, it is money well spent.  I find enormous solace in Big Issue, because whilst I have never been homeless, thanks to the generosity of my parents, mostly, and now my husband’s understanding and tolerance, I identify readily with many of the themes that find less fortunate people without roofs over their heads.  There is a raw truth and honesty to many of the articles that I find enormously comforting and appealing.  Not to mention that this week, the buying public got a free download of one Adele’s tracks as well as a heads up on a Billy Connolly tour that’ll be in our neck of the woods next year that has piqued my husband’s interest.   Who knows, we may even splash out!