Attack of the 40 Pence Man

I just met the most charming panhandler.

He didn't look particularly panhandler-like. He was just an old English gentleman, with his tweed blazer and old English gentleman hat, sitting on a bench. He called me over to him as I passed, and told me his harrowing tale: he had to get back to Warmickshurshirefordonshurmickford, which, as you know, is quite a distance away. And in his age, he told me, his legs were just not up to the journey. They had gone quite numb, really. I didn't know if he wanted me push him in a shopping cart down the street, which is an English custom, but I continued listening. Actually, he just needed 40 pence for the bus fare. Ah. Okay. I had some change in my pocket (if a 2 pound coin can be called change), felt my way around, and produced a single pence. Oh. I told him that I was sorry I could only contribute a single pence, as shiny as it was, and he smiled quietly as I handed it to him.

No more than five steps after departing my dear friend, another old man approached me, grinning. I am not opposed to grinning old men, but it is an odd occurrence when a stranger who is no less than 100 years in age, and no more than 100 pounds in weight, impedes your path with a craggily British grin. It was clear that this gentleman was in some way connected to the other. He told me, in an expected thick British accent which I won't care to textually emulate, "You must quite a kind person. I just gave him forty pence! He's making a profit."

Uh huh. I mentioned that he had only received one pence from me, which I said as if it were some sort of victory on my part. Ah, well.

Those guys were great.