The Duke E17 pub(p) in Walthamstow, East London

Surprise, surprise. The Duke E17 with the dog head sign was once just The Duke’sHead pub, most likely featuring a more traditional, more Royal-esque portrait as its iconic sign. Despite looks to the contrary (more gastropub scene) a true “local” has operated on this site in the North London borough of Waltham Forest since 1722. Originally a brewery operating behind an inn, The Duke’s Head was a home to coach operators and travellers on their way in- and out-of the City of London, about seven miles to the Southwest. During both world wars, versions of The Duke served warm soup to poor citizens and allowed local women to wash clothes in its heated water — some of that laundry juice likely made the beer a bit more tart. A small pub chain Dirty Liquor (Ei Group) currently runs The (pet-friendly) Duke E17, as well as the nearby Dog & Duck, Lord Morpeth E3, and the Tiger E9.

In the Tradition of Calvin Trillin’s, Tepper Isn’t Going Out: Adrian is Weeding Now

On the love of animals in Iraq…

This New Yorker never wanted a cat. No way, no how. What the hell was I going to do with a cat in a studio flat in Fort Greene, Brooklyn? Besides, how would I care for it, afford to feed it, keep it from jumping off the open window ledge two stories below and running away? None of these excuses mattered to the three women at quite possibly the worst Connecticut alcohol rehab in the history of the state.

“But you’re a vegetarian. You have to take him,” they told me, as I prepared to head back to the city, just 30 days sober.

“What does me being a vegetarian have to do with the price of lager in Germany?” I replied, smiling at my pithy retort.

“If you don’t take him, he’s just going to hang around and then freeze to death in the winter,” one replied pointedly. “Don’t you believe in all that animal rights stuff?”

“Okay, stop, stop, stop. You had me at ‘freeze to death.’” At the time, age 32, yes, I could still not watch Old Yeller for a second time and blanched at journalists who wrote about eating steaks after meeting their cows, but I aimed to get out of this alcohol mess, start back to work and redeem myself in journalism circles. Cats and dogs were not on my radar — neither was a constant little black-and-white reminder of my failings following me around the apartment. But imagining this little Tuxedo cat with green eyes and a wry meow, cold, wet and begging for food in nowheresville wrecked my plans. I plucked Norwich out of the yard of our sober house in Norwich and stashed him in my room for two days before a fellow inmate loaned me her cat carrier and I boarded a MetroNorth from Guilford back to face my demons in the city. With a cat. No one in my inner circle thought this was a good idea. It turned out to be one of the best decisions of my young life.

I didn’t think that at first. Norwich knew, however. After another bender, I lost more work and had to move from my studio flat into a shared house, no pets allowed. When I tried to pawn him off on a friend, Norwich shat in her shoes until I waited for all my housemates to evacuate for the weekend and snuck him into yet another room, in another shared house where he stayed undetected for two months. By the time we had to find yet another place, Norwich had captured my heart, and life without him seemed improbably impossible.

Don’t get me wrong… Norwich was not a lap cat. He didn’t do tricks… or cat videos on Instagram. He hated to be overly cuddled. Rather, at the least expected moment, Norwich would just sidle up beside me and accept pets, or jump on the back of my desk chair while I worked, oversseing my productivity like my first editor at the Tulsa World. But he sure was loyal. Norwich survived my failed job attempt in Qatar, as well as the trip home, a permanent move to Tudor City in Midtown Manhattan and eventually bone cancer which left him with three legs. He hopped around for love and Dreamies until late December 2019 when his heart just gave out, age 12.

Before then, however, I had found the second feline love of my life…

“Katie, I have a surprise for you,” I said over the phone from a semi-heated, semi-finished apartment below two guys from Afghanistan confused about this American’s purpose on a Silk Road sojourn in Uzbekistan.

“Ok… what is it?” my girlfriend of a year and change replied, never sure if I was bringing home some new rug or random piece of art I acquired in another far-flung country. I had recently convinced her to adopt Finchley, a shy, oddball little Tortie from the local shelter. “Wait, you’re not bringing home another cat, are you?”

“Funny you should say,” I replied. “I was walking home from the gym the other night and I heard this faint ‘meow, meow, meow’ coming from a constuction site, so I bent over and here runs this little kitten straight into my coat.”

“And so you brought the cat to yours,” she assumed. Katie was an emotional Ninja, having worked in corporate land for so long. I could never know exactly the thoughts that popped into her head unless we were in the same room — and even then, it was hit and miss.

“Yes, well, I did. But I promise I am going to find Samarkand (Sammie) a place. My fixer says he has some land and some cats there. I’ll just get her fixed up.”

“Ok,” Katie replied. “Just don’t bring her home. We have enough cats.”

“What about a dog?” I asked, half-joking. “There is this incredible little guy next door. He is so cute and friendly…”

“No.” And that was that.

Katie knew me pretty well by then and she likely guessed that the longer I held on to Sammie, the more likely she would be coming back with me. About a week left in my month’s stay in Uzbekistan — and two weeks of Sammie snoozing next to me when the Uzbeks plied me with vodka on nights out — I decided to stress test the system and see if I could get Sammie fixed up for flight. Not knowing anything other than Samarkand, Uzbekistan had a large veterinary college a mile away from my residence, I walked in that direction and stumbled across a pet shop and quite possibly the kindest Turkish cat lover in the entire country. She spoke hardly any English, and Turkish was a mouthful of consonants to me, but with pointed fingers and hand gestures, we took Sammie around to various bewildered vet students and their overseers to get Sammie chipped, vaccinated and eventually, a pet passport. I picked up a little collar, a lip-smooch decorated carry case and some toys. Total cost: $100, including the taxis.

On 8 December 2019, I took the train to Tashkent and boarded a Turkish Airlines flight home. The flight attendants couldn’t pay enough attention to this little unassuming kitty. She got treats, water and loads of cuddles, while I watched 10 hours of censored entertainment. After landing, the U.S. Customs officer asked if I had anything to declare. I put my coat over Sammie’s carrier, said “no” and walked through Newark with our new immigrant cat.

At first, Norwich, Finchley and Sammie had little spats. Two days later, however, Sammie had even wormed her little way into Katie’s heart. Her curiosity never ended, and included hopping around Katie’s and my workstations, insisting on helping with puzzles and Lego tree ornaments, and hopping up to always see the cuisine Katie prepared in the kitchen. But Sammie fully won over Katie when she perched herself on Katie’s chest and watched Saturday morning English football with her. She might not have meowed for the Aston Villa, but just the attention pleased my football obsessed girlfriend enough. Katie welcomed all Aston Villa fans.

For Christmas, the two of us traveled to Katie’s Birmingham, England to see her family. On 26 December 2019, while attending a highly sought-after Villa match, Katie got the call that Norwich had died. One of my best friends tried to comfort me by saying that Norwich saw Sammie, realised that we now had another cat to look after me and chose his time to cross that proverbial “rainbow bridge.” I was inconsolable during a break to Malta and upon coming home and not seeing Norwich waiting for me at the door. But my friend’s words proved wise. Sammie tried her best to take up Norwich’s big pawprints.

However, Sammie was sick herself, although one would have never guessed by the way she played around our apartment. Born with FIV — the cat version of HIV — she started having little teeth and nose infections here and there, and then her mouth became so infected, we had to have all her teeth removed. But cats adapt, and Sammie did just fine, pawing bits of her soft food into her mouth like a little polite feline princess before chewing it with her gums. When coronavirus and then Covid-19 enveloped New York City in lockdown and police and anti-police violence protestors started heavy unrest in Manhattan and every day for nine months felt like 9/11/2001 repeating itself over and over and over, Sammie brought us laughs and cuddles. She could even manage to cozy up to the interaction-adverse Finchley. When Katie and I decided to end our time in New York and relocate to London, no doubt both cats would come with us.

Nine months flew by before we could even say “we moved to London.” Sammie survived the flights, the moves, jumping in-and-out of the extra-tall boxes, and the change… until she didn’t. A sniffle turned into a respriatory infection, which Katie convinced a local vet to treat with antibiotics. Following a disastrous reporting trip to Iraq, after which I came home not-sober, Sammie and I both cuddled up trying to recover for two days. I did; she didn’t. Katie took Sammie to the Royal Veterinary Hospital clinic. The antibiotics weren’t helping and the infection had spread all over her body. Because of the FIV, Sammie didn’t have the strength to fight it off. The RVC put her to sleep in early December 2021. Katie and I cried for two days straight. We couldn’t believe our little bestie had come into our lives, brightened them so much and departed so quickly. Our only consolation: Norwich had been waiting at that now cliche Rainbow Bridge.

I never had a cat growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Like many red-blooded Americans, I was a self-avowed “dog-lover” and neither paid attention to cats in general, nor their ways of expressing devotion and true companionship. Getting attached to any of these animals — and I have taken in several since Sammie and Norwich died — is a lesson in emotional treachery, as well. They become the constants in a life — the devoted best friends always there when human friends flake and plans fall through. They are co-workers in a largely work-from-home profession. They take up that empty bed-space after difficult breakups and serve as cuddle-buddies when that mind-numbing drug is screaming out for an overwhelmed mind in today’s Internet Wild West world. The treachery comes in their lifespans. If only the universe allowed dogs and cats to live as long as tortoises or parrots.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love cats; I still love dogs. I am still a vegetarian, although a more animal rights activist one in my later years. And I still pick up strays who need homes, including three in England and one in Iraq. The last one, Nawas, a little orange kitten found in a box on the streets of Baghdad, inspired the establishment of the Iraqi Street Animal Rescue Network (ISARO). When I couldn’t find a sanctuary for her, I contacted everyone I possibly knew for answers. Turns out, they had the same question as I did: How do we save these animals with whom we fall in love? Who become our family? Who protect us and treasure us and ask us for nothing but love and basic care?

Since helping found this little nonprofit, we have managed to do some amazing things, such as save Chickpea, a dog turned out of the Green Zone when her army buddies could no longer keep her. We have dispatched care to archaeologists in the nether regions of Iraq who, along with ancient bones, stumble upon the corpses of poisoned dogs and scramble to save the ones who survived. We have housed no fewer than nine cats until they can find a permanent home, in Iraq or abroad. We are determined to save animals and ensure that every human gets a chance to experience the love of a cherished pet. It’s life-altering when people open their hearts to them.

Along with city arms, the crossed keys is one of the most common symbols found in England — and a relatively regular name for pubs, aside from World’s End or the Lord Wellington. While the crossed keys signify St. Peter and his alleged rolls into heaven’s gate — and are dangerously close to the state seal of the Vatican — these keys represent the Anglican Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of St Peter in York. That the Cross Keys Pub is located in Covent Garden makes sense, as well, when one knows that Covent Garden was actually as 12th-century garden for Westminster Abbey before it became the City’s first public square in 1630s. The English are very literal with names.

But this Cross Keys, serving theatergoers since 1840, is anything but ecumenical and everything religious about a proper London boozer: brass and copper everywhere, bar foot rest, dark and cosy with low lighting and solid pub carpet. But even if one doesn’t step inside, the place gives off Victorian pomp with all of its elaborate masory and extensive foliage around the entrance. Those who do walk in for an London Pride face a collection of bric-a-brac — known as “tat” in England — ranging from copper kettles to musical instruments and even a diving helmet. There are also brewery mirrors, a large collection of portraits and pictures, and two « notable clocks. » More to comE on those…

A successful « local » in London is a second home. Cross Keys has been described as such: “someone’s front room when the lights are low and they’re nursing a brandy just before retiring for the evening.” As this customer concluded: “It’s not often you can witness that sort of private scene recreated in a public setting where intimacy is there for all to experience and enjoy.” True. When they aren’t in pubs, the English guard their privacy harder than Peter watches the gates.

In the Tradition of Calvin Trillin’s, Tepper Isn’t Going Out: Adrian is Weeding Now

Bear with this shift and with me. I am no longer working primarily in Journalism, sadly — and have transitioned to starting a tennis app, My writing may be a bit rusty. I started this column when I moved here with a crash, bang in February 2021 after a year of Covid to write about my experiences adjusting to a new country. It has been an adjustment for me, and the column probably reflects all the change.

In short, I moved with my English girlfriend and after Covid, we split up only to realise that we were best friends shortly afterward. The breakup was my fault; I wasn’t adjusting well. She moved from London to closer to home in Birmingham, and I moved to Central London. I had a freelance fact-cheking gig for AirMail, a former Vanity Fair-staffer startup, and another job writing with the UN Human Rights Commission. I also had relationship within three months of the breakup with a Polish/English girl ten years my junior and the complete opposite of me found organically, not Hinge. And Boom, life was good. It was great, in fact: money, love, relative success, fun times, London, European sojourns — it was all mine.

Then my life came crashing down a bit. The UN assignment ended and Air Mail made me redundant. I don’t have a visa to work in England. But just about the time I was sending out some proposals for book ideas, an idea I had about a sign-up app for tennis courts hit. Lately, if something hits, I follow it, as it leads to a paying gig. Then a book proposal hit. Good success for sure, but starting an app business is something for which literally, nothing can prepare you. Starting a business and writing a book meant I had two prospective money-makers, but very little money to pull it off. Then the demands, the investments, the hours and the sheer ability to lay yourself bare over and over again became overwhelming. Needless to say, I got back into old habits, swore off my running and started my old New York party life in London. That was not only untenable, it was also heartbreaking last year when one of my favorite people and one of two people who can make me roll-over laughing ended our relationship over it.

See, I love pubs. I love drinking. First of all, alcohol loosens everyone’s inhabition; if drinkers are in the space between buzzed and sloppy, they are nicer, more honest, more forthright, more intimate — at least in my opinion. When I have had about three cheap lagers in me, I have enough cliche liquid courage to bury my introvert and be “on".” Or so I think. Most people say I am a mess after four drinks. But drinking is not about them; it’s about me. It’s about my preception of feeling relaxed and funny and easy-going and the person I feel people want me to be. It’s also escapism; a check out; a nice warm red telephone box into which I can crawl and remain unafftected while I watch the world go by.

But what do the English do when the chips are down? They do not cry in their Newkie Browns! They Keep Calm and Carry On, damn it! Bloody hell. They don’t whinge and moan and get all sentimental like the American Yank crying in her zero percent beer. By god, these English hop out of their Range Rovers after taking care of business over the English Channel, pop by to see the Queen, stop in for a pint at the local, pound the American (or Italian or Spainard or merde, the Frenchman) at lawn tennis, have another pint and do it all over again tomorrow. Why couldn’t I be more like them?

And yeah, well, I wasn’t going to get much sympathy over here: I had to get on with it, too.

Long story short: this is my life now, in London, living alone, working alone, doing spreadsheets for a book and an app to get them ready for launch, shoving down the crushing lonlieness telling myself it will be worth it. I date occasionally. That said, I have had a terrible time getting used to the England reserve and sense of humour. I grew up in polite society (Tulsa’s only openly gay former debutante) and then adjusted to being a “fuck you, no fuck you, no fuck your mother” subway-riding New Yorker to this weird in-between world. My sense of self is off; I am selling myself and an idea, not my work. I am trying to not take the lack of investment in the app, the low percentage or friends, the general reception of the English toward me and recent breakups personally, while not drinking in London in the pubs I love (cannabis gummies help). It’s a juggle; rather, it’s a struggle

In 2000, right as I was applying to Columbia Journalism School, I read a satire by Calvin Trillin called Tepper Isn’t Going Out. The plot: a middle-aged man goes and sits in his car every day to read his newspaper and have some solace. And every day multiple people drive by to ask for his parking space — is he “going out.” He refuses to leave, and in doing so, becomes a cult hero in New York after he is featured in the Village Voice.

I don’t have a car in which I can sit and read the newspaper, neither in London nor New York. However, as I get through these months of building this app and dating without getting drunk, don’t be surprised to see me outside of my apartment building or around the block doing my own little Islington community cleanup, an “Adrian is Weeding Now” moment. Because I am a bit tired of tennis and the gyms and I need my “me” time — the English call it DIY time (they do a lot of DIY projects). I’m also going to use this blog to test some new writing — my funny, droll, satirical voice. I’m used to reporting stories, spewing out facts and figures and reporting on stuff. While I was doing data-entry the other day, however, I was writing a stand-up routine to entertain myself.

So from now on, Letter from a London Pub/Adrian is Weeding Now is going to be like a riff, a loose check-in on how much I am NOT belonging in Europe. It will be more jazz than indie rock, even though I don’t really like jazz. It will be about my life as it is, not as I want it seen. Some may have themes; some just observations. Some blogs might have coherent prose; others might be snapshots of life. All will have photos, as I love taking and editing photos.

Here it is, the first section of Adrian is Weeding Now.

Adrian is Weeding Now

Open mic stand up:

I started dreaming this standup in my head while doing data entry in Excel and now you know the origin of this problem, my problem, me, as a problem. I’m a journalist; I should not be doing Excel. We hate numbers. We’re also supposed to write to solve problems; excel is unsolvable.

Here’s another reason I started writing stand up. I mostly left journalism to use my talent to solve a tennis problem and finally, maybe make some money — get in on some of this tech millions going around. Little did I realize how many little annoying, niggly problems there are to solve in tennis. Those damn iinfinite numbers again. And well, tennis is not a regularly evolving game filled with people who love tradition. Why I did not realise this impossible situation before I dove head first into it, I have no idea. Maybe I caught Silicon Valley syndrome — it’s like Stockholm syndrome only with tech bros in Patagonia vests instead of hippie groups with guns.

And then, the ultimate problem with me and this desk job situation: my “grass is greener” and “bored easily,” rough and tumble journalism life. It’s like, huh, this spreadsheet is so damn detailed and boring, I have to get through it. But look at this exciting story over here! Ok, let me try one more time to adjust this maketing message to meet the expectations of a test audience. But look at this situation over there — maybe a story will help. I have all these things to get done and here I am daydreaming about getting myself into another project. One day, I even decided that if I was going to leave this career writing about issues and problems to solve, that I would actively solve problems. I got a bit delusional here… I started thinking, for every action Donald Trump takes that makes Americans look bad or stupid, I will take an equal and opposite reaction. I had neither time nor money for that.

So now I’m just this overwhelmed writer and app founder working alone all day and telling my jokes to the cats and then I realised something…

I should try stand-up. Because I am very funny…

In my head… and you know, well, to my cats. They’re so expressive. They’re so encouraging; so enthusiastic. Kind of like my parents…

Ok, we won’t go there.

But seriously, I tried stand up because it took coming to this country to realise the one thing I am great at: making fun of myself

And the English LOVE that. The English love nothing more then to “take the mick” out of you. However, you will endear them foever if you can effectively and cleverly “take the piss” out of yourself. If they’re drunk, you don’t have to be as clever. They just adore you if you aren’t endearing, don’t take yourself too seriously (Brune McBruneFace?), follow their rules and make them laugh.

So here you go, English people. You think you’ve got me beat, you, you, you Redcoats! Hear this! This American is undeterred on your waters. On your land. And I am not leaving. Because in your country, I found my pure joy, my passion, among the purest of the pure, the pompiest of the pomp, the most disarming of the disarming, the oohing and ahhing Victorians of Islington. Yes — I did the one thing Lena Dunham only wishes she could have successfully done — I came to London to craft, like a fine waxed Barbour jacket, like Fortnam + Mason tea, like Waitrose ready-to-eat salads… I came to London to craft my art: self-deprecating comedy. Will let you know how it goes.

Anyone who taken a train out of Euston Station knows that the departing vehicles don’t move nearly as quickly as jet-propelled ones. But before the Space Age, they might have seemed so. The Rocket was one of the last (non-brewing) Firkins, a chain of mostly brew pubs that offered cask ale — a traditionally produced, super-fermentated, unfiltered, unpasteurized and naturally carbonated beer stored in, duh, a cask. Through a number of business transactions, Bass Ale eventually acquired the majority of the pubs. But prior to that, Firkin pubs issues a "passport,” in which would be travellers would obtain a stamp from each pub visited, as well as public transport directions to the nearest pub. Some people would complete the Firkin Crawl (visiting 12 pubs) in a month, maybe a year, and thus get their Free T-Shirt. But the English with their extremities: the goal soon became to complete a Firkin Pub Crawl in a day.

The pub must have promised too many shirts, as the Firkins Chain closed in the UK in 2013 — cask ale lovers thought all was lost. A year laster, The Rocket appeared, a striking pub with a Grade II Victorian exterior built in 1899 by Shoebridge & Rising for Cannon Brewery. Although the pub is three storeys, it is set back from Euston Road with single storey extension of one bay. The top floor of the pub has an attic storey in large Flemish gables, with one that features a carved plaque of the sun rising over the sea. It is inscribed "Rebuilt 1899".

Truest Test of Englishness? The Brompton Championships

There exist few tests of true English assimilation: engaging proper weather talk (and owning an enviable umbrella); downing five pints of Newkie (Newcastle) Brown Ale without falling over; and picking a football team and sticking with it through relegation. Anglophiles who have not successfully achieved the normal bona fides, might choose the competition route, thus becoming champion cheddar-rollers, torch-bearing Bonfire associées or bog snorkellers.

But above all other contests, one stands alone: assembling and riding as fast as possible the tiny-tired, two-wheeler with the super long seat pole on an improvised track in the area surrounding Kings Cross train station. And do it all in “fancy dress,” King’s English for “costume.” In other words, becoming a Brompton World Champion.

Desperate American expats do desperate things.

New Yorkers once regularly rode Bromptons, renowned for their compactness and portability, especially on commuter trains. But ultimately they just didn’t look cool, making them unideal for any self-respecting Manhattanite, Brooklynite or even Queens commuter — forget about the Bronx — to coast anywhere in public. Thus, Brompton has one tiny store in SoHo, while in England, the 50-year-old brand is a household name.

That still doesn’t make them easy to ride, let alone race.

“The Brompton is actually nimble; its tires are wide, giving it a lot of ground to grip; they can accelerate really quickly,” says Man of the Purple, a mechanic, cycling advocate and owner of at least two Bromptons. By this time, however, Purple Man didn’t have to do much to convince a certain American journalist who had never ridden, let alone, folded and unfolded a Brompton, to compete in its commuter-bike championships. She had just come off a three-week ban from her tennis club for “being rude.” A transformation was needed.

First, came the fold-unfold practice. A true Bromptonite can do it in about 25 seconds flat. Fail in this element, and one might as well call it a race. “Last year, we watched some poor man get looped twice before he could even get going,” says Man of the Purple’s partner of more than 20 years. “But he didn’t give up; we all cheered.” After a few running starts in Purples’ family kitchen, this journalist could assemble hers in about two minutes, at best. “Just practice ten times before you go to bed tonight,” Purple’s wife says, “and you’ll have it down, no problem.” The fear had already been planted, however. Would this New Yorker ever fit in with the English?

The next barrier: fancy dress. Costumes of English school boy, French baker and Peaky Blinder were ruled out, as neither a prep school-patch, a beret, nor a set of braces and a bow tie could be procured in time — even from a school uniform shop in Islington’s Chapel Market. “We have a strict school-only policy on those,” said a friendly, if unhelpful, employee at Rough Cut Casuals, the merchant of nearly 50 local academies’ regalia. “You have to have an ID.” With’ “Man of the Purple’s” matchy-matchy ensemble of purple vest, hat, shoes, sunglasses and Brompton threatening to take yet another English award, a “tennis numpty” getup was thrown together: white shorts, white West Side Tennis Club branded polo, white Queens Club branded cap, two vintage racquets in a backpack and white Stan Smiths. Job done.

Lastly, the race. Tennis white donned, racquets in pack, menacing look tested, the tennis eejit, Man of the Purple and Purple’s partner made their way on Saturday morning toward the Brompton booth at Coal Drops Yard, the former industrial compound redesigned by Thomas Heatherwick into a massive outdoor dining, shopping and working complex right off the Camden branch of houseboat-laden Regent’s Canal. “I’m not sure a big loop for Brompton bicycles was in the works for this place when they redesigned it,” mused Man of the Purple’s partner.

While race bibs were acquired and pinned, and chips zip-tied to Brompton forks, all manner of Bromptonites strolled by: Mr. Banana and Mrs. Orange; the HMS Brompton with midriff-centered, cardboard-made ship; Union-Jack top hats and tails; Where’s Waldos; German Ricola men in Lederhosen; and a personal favorite, a luchador with his luchadora ready to wrestle for the finish. Each surveyed the roughly .75-kilometer track, which had to be looped five times in the assigned heat, then settled in for the wait, while offering opinions on the £2,999 special edition Tour de France Brompton, which one could use to “Allez, Every Day!” No self-respecting Englishman cared too much for it.

Finally, Heat Nine was called. The tennis numpty set up her borrowed and folded Brompton, lined up with the office workers and Willy Wonkas, and waited for the emcee to yell “Ready, Steady, Go!” Remembering Pedal, Handlebars, Seat and Frame (PHSF) ,she nonethless faffed with the clamps, and was the second to last off the line. Recalling Man of the Purple’s words the night before, however — “there’s something that I see in you that other Brompton riders just don’t have” — the tennis numpty kicked her aggression acquired riding New York City streets into high gear, passed another middle-aged women in suit and flats and a heavy-set newspaper boy to cheers of “Go Wimbledon!” By the time the fifth uphill was tackled in first gear and the finish line crossed, tennis numpyt had channeled all the Taxi-dodging and pedestrian-swearing into an age-group-appropriate first-place finish, certificate to prove it. The Man of the Purple, who came in a respectable top-20, was chuffed — maybe a little gobsmacked. Word is still out from the Home Office.

Acting! It is a thing the Brits do best. Every personal display is an act, thus meaning that most British people don’t necessary have to go to acting school to become pros. Past generations train future ones to consistently put on a public show of good faith, interest, comedy, feigned tragedy or other. If a youngster attains a position at one of the many of the consrvatories across the country, especially the prestigious Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts (RADA), parents and friends acclaim them — this person is supremely English — and thus, could possibly never utter a sincere word again.

One never knows in dealing with even the average Brit if it is a role or the real person. There is a reason for this: shame and honor. The British live in consistent fear of looking ridiculous, becoming the butt of a joke, or most importantly, being talked about behind one’s back. There exist the What’s App channels to organize events and then there are the back channels used solely to heap scorn on certain members of the first What’s App group. The English “take the piss” out of themselves before anyone else can do it. And lastly, the stoicism that is so endemic across the country — the one that has caused a massive mental health crisis and loads of addiction issues — is praised relentlessly. So much so, that Brits feel as if they can only be themselves if under the influence of some substance or having a full-on breakdown. The reason Brits and Americans (and the French) have such discord has everything to do with this stoicism, which makes all of us with real emotions feel like outsiders or imposters or the enemy — most of the time. Instead of crying on subways, as in New York, we cry in bathrooms and corners. Or try to stiffen that quivering upper lip.

Shakespeare was a master of the duplicity of the British, picking up on it as early as the 16th century. Lampooning it in his comedies, As You Like It or The Merchant of Venice — and even in his tragedies. Another human being would never see an Englishman questioning whether “to be or not to be” or his wife screaming at a spot, ala Macbeth. It was a master stroke then to put the bard in window overlooking his pub in the heart of SoHo, watching (and perhaps laughing) at all the English interactions.

The Shakespeare’s Head on Carnaby Street is probably the most original of all the Shakespeare pubs in England, even though its origins are a bit dodgy. Originally licensed in 1753 to John and Thomas Shakespeare, allegedly distant relatives of the famous playwright, William Shakespeare had no direct descendants and died 119 years before the pub was built. The name, however, did help the pub attract more customers, as did the Shakespeare bust peeping out of the pub’s upstairs window. Added around 1900, the bust was possibly more than just a head, as it has a missing hand, apparently due to World War II bomb damage. In fact, nothing of the original establishment remains — the building which stands today is late nineteenth-century, Tudor style.

As most old pubs, the Shakespeare’s Head has probably witnessed untold stories. Great Marlborough Street, on which the Shakespeare’s head is located, boasted two main landmarks: a legendary magistrates court where high-profile cases were heard, and a private anatomy school. Anatomist Joshua Brookes ran a private anatomy school from his Great Marlborough Street home in the late 1700s, where would-be doctors could experiment on bodies — for free, A beer after a hard day was provided by The Shakespeare’s Head. When the anatomy fad faded, the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court charge sheet read like a celebrity Who’s Who: John Lennon for exhibiting sexually explicit pictures; Bob Monkhouse for defrauding film distribution companies; Christine Keeler for Profumo; Keith Richards for possession of heroin, mandrax, marijuana, a revolver and an antique shotgun, as well as Mick Jagger, Lionel Bart, Johnny Rotten and Francis Bacon, also for drugs.

Street Saviour: Ann couldn’t help herself in London. Could I? Part II (Part I is here.)

Wednesday

After another kind Uber driver dropped us at my flat and Ann dragged herself up the stairs, we settled in to the previous night’s routine, with her taking up the couch and me uprooting my 14-year-old cat, Dorothy, so I could sit on Dotrothy’s favourite chair. Ann was not eating much, as she had not done an English “poo” in about a week, so I left her to her shows and the green juice I bought her earlier in the day. Again, she was playing games on her phone, but also texting here and there with her mother in Bermuda and her church down in Bromley. Evidently, her mother, a retired Jamaican nurse, had gone from advising her to eat mashed baby prunes to relieve her bowels to trying out some steamed vegetables. And in other news, the pastor of Ann’s church in Bromley wanted to take her in for housing, but he had to consult the church council.

Here we go, I thought, as I took my headphones out of my ears, yet another council to make some decision on Ann’s future. But I wasn’t exactly sitting on Dot’s chair seething. I hadn’t actually minded someone just sort of being around, even though Anne would interrupt my writing flow o fret about “pushing too hard for a poo” and hemorrhoids and whether she was going to have them for the rest of her life.

“No, Ann, you’ll be fine,” I told her. “Want me to run across the street to the off-license (the “offie” or corner store where all manner of people could buy alcohol and other needed items past regular hours, but mostly alcohol) and buy you a laxative? It will help.” She fretted about some allergy or something to laxatives — she was already wearing Depends undergarments at the age of 50 — and turned it down. I tried to let it go, remembering there but for the grace of god and my family go I.

When not summoned by Ann, I rediscovered some old music on my headphones and answered emails and What’s Apps regarding a refugee project I had going on in Iraq. I also made some attempts at writing, but that was possibly a bit ambitious on my end, as noise from the tele and Ann’s utterances just broke my concerntration. Finally, I decided bed was a good idea and we said our goodnights again, as the cats and I headed back to my room. “Adrian, I just want you to know that you have the kindest heart in the world,” Ann told me. “You are so open and I am so grateful to you.”

There it was: the flattery. I had heard it before and I had uttered it myself to my older brother and younger sister to try and thank them for the help they had given me over the years. Ann’s sounded as hollow as probably my own entreaties — people wanted action, not words. They wanted to see my life dramatically improve; like, improve overnight. I wanted see instant success with Ann, too, as if my couch and the Ginger Beers I bought her and the fish and chips and green juices and some clean tote bags and that spare travel thing of Chanel Chance perfume I found Ann would cause her to throw off her crutches, walk upstraight, declare herself fit for purpose and be on her way.

But all at once, I saw my past and potential future flash in my brain, remembering when my brother came to pick me up from hospital following a week-long bender in October 2008. I had decided I would rather be a gutter drunk than go to another AA meeting. At those, popularity was based on the number of days one had sober, and to me, the cliquiness of the sober lesbians felt like the female bullies of my old prep school. As I was in rent arrears a month for my beloved Brooklyn flat — my first solo home — Jim had moved all my stuff into his basement and held his resulted anger deep down in the bottom of his gut. I made sure to walk thre paces behind him on his march to Union Square for the subway home. We said little to each other until we reached his shared house in Park Slope — in urban myth the one where Toni Morrison had written Beloved (she didn’t, but lived there afterward). He showed me my room and set out my the routine: 90 meetings in 90 days, keep everything spit-shine clean and otherwise try to sort out a new place and a new life in a month. Yet, for a few fleeting hours, I sank into the bed downstairs from my big brother feeling like I was home for the first time in possibly 22 years — back to 1986, before my parents commenced their ugly divorce.

“Ann, it’s all fine. And no, I am not any kind of angel or whatever. I am, actually, a bitch.” Earlier that day, I had received an email notice that my tennis club had issued me a three-week suspension for “being rude” to a longtime member on the day of my aunt’s death. In an open letter to a proudly Japanese women’s captain, who aimed to use me yet again as a mouthpiece for club politicking, I had told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted no part of the team, let alone try outs. Apparently, telling her that the 14-year-olds at my native Oklahoma prep school did a better job of choosing winning teams than a London club in the country where lawn tennis was invented was a gigantic American insult. It had also been a big no-no to identify someone by their ethnicity, yet another rule of engagement in the international culture wars. The club secretaries wanted an apology, too. “I accept the consequences,” I wrote back. “I am sorry.” By the end of the day, brain tank was dry,

“Well, whatever made you cry earlier today,” Ann said, oblivious to anything I was experiencing, even the dressing-down I had been taking to serve as her advocate, “it will turn out alright. I believe god has something great planned for you, just as I believe I am the richest woman in the world. I am rich in people, in love and in possibility,” she went on. “I am going to get through this now and will come out on top. Maybe I will start my own rescue center. God has lots of riches planned for me — and lots for you, too.” She told me this with a new found confidence I couldn’t bring myself to believe. Probably just the same as my own brother and sister years before.

“Okay, Ann. From your lips to the universe’s ears, right?” I replied a quater heartedly. I was beginning to feel a bit played like a Catholic-guilt church organ, But how could anyone fake the scoliosis and the limps and the seizures and the allergies and everything else, I wondered. And why would anyone bring themselves that low for a spot on a sofa in North London.

“Tomorrow, we must absolutely get you to hospital to get your constipation, your inhalers and your other issues fixed,” I told Ann, thinking that maybe a hospital social worker would finally found this woman a bed. “So up early for that pedicure we missed today and a hair washing.” Ann hadn’t scrubbed clean her dirty head in possibly weeks, as she had complained of hand pain and needed someone to do it for her. I left it all at that, and pet Bromley, by then sitting on my stomach, waiting for attention.

Cats — beings that I had been keeping in my home for nearly 20 years (the first abandoned and bullied stray forced upon me during my first and only stint in rehab in Norwich, Connecticut, whom I took home and aptly named Norwich)— can be totally annoying, too. They meow and wake you when they are hungry. They will bat and hiss if not pleased with your actions. They are picky about toys and catnip and all manner of beds.

Cats also, much like the homeless, get a bad rap. Depending on the moggy and its upbringing, they will either scratch the shit out of you or jump on the couch and nuzzle — or both. They can also sit on your lap and purr to their heart’s content. They are soft and furry and do adorable, outrageous things. Still, there is one major difference from sharing a home with a homeless human and with your two cats: other than various pitches of meows, cats can’t talk. You can also move them or knock them off their perch if necessary; squirt them with water to discipline them; give them a toy to play with; and feed them. Nine times out of 10 they go away happy.

These same things do not apply to homeless people.

After being awakened at god-knows-when by Ann the first night of our stay due to her asthma or allergies or something coming through the cracked window, I knew the second night to close windows and curtains and the doors separating my bedroom area from my living area. And when I awoke at nine o’clock the next morning for coffee with a friend at the British Library , she was dead asleep. Let sleeping homeless people lie, I thought. I came back at noon, and Ann was up and ready to go.

After a productive catch-up with my good friend — also new to London — I felt strong enough to solve both my problems and Ann’s, as well. First up, the pedicure abandoned the day before due to hours at the homeless centre. Second in line: a hair wash. After that, the Whittington hospital A+E an NHS hospital located bwteen the tough Holloway neighbourhood and the posh Highbury enclave. I had hoped we could at leadt get Ann a diuretic, maybe a bed in hospital, a medical social work case manager and some other resources. Ann had already been sending me links to places she wanted to go. Either I was getting royally scammed by Lady Ann, or she knew she needed vast amounts of care, or she just wanted to be waited on hand-and-foot for the rest of her life. I could not discern, and usually I was pretty good a picking up on a scam.

Along the way, political questions started to form in my mind, considering the situation in both the UK and America. After ten years of an austerity government in the UK during which social services were radically slashed for all the marginalised — and all these church leaders including the late pope were trying to encourage compassion — are the lot of us just supposed to throw a bunch of loose change to the people on our streets and kick them off the curb? Are the idiot, naive ones of the population supposed to take them into our homes one-by-one as the tech billionaires and politicians and lobbyists just get richer off the dysfunctional government?

Or if we’re all supposed to be practicing radical self-responsibility as Trust Fund Baby Trump continues to slash and burn any kind of domestic and international aide in favour of war in the Middle East to create even more marginalised, then who the hell is supposed to look out for the people who couldn’t look after themselves? Bono? The birther, Elon Musk? The dwindling charities? Was I supposed to invoice the government for monies spent on the homeless? Which department? Did that department still exist thanks to the absolute insanity of a certain car-and-rocket business buyer (not founder) who drove his employees like indentured servants, while he seeded the world with his offspring and encouraged more people to do so? Maybe I wanted to feel useful after weeks of not writing or pitching or getting anything done on a book due to grief and an existential crisis about the point of my life following my aunt’s funeral. But I also wanted to not feel guilt as I walked down the street and to stop spending my taxed money and my spare time looking after a stranger.

I was having the ultimate karma kick in the ass.

The Virgin Queen Pub in Hackney, London

This is not the first iteration of this faux-Tudor pub near Broadway Market, bridging the growing gap between the hipsterness of Hackney and Shorditch. But the Virgin Queen is possibly the most appropos name and setting for the East London local. And it attracts both highbrow and commoners, alike.

Formerly The Albion, a home away from home for West Bromwich Albion fans, the football memorabilia has been replaced by carefully sourced antique panelling and vintage furnishings (such as dark wood panelling recycled from a church), a roaring fire and hand-pumped draughts. But in 2017, Remarkable Pubs — an outfit founded in 1985 when two business men took over the run-down Prince George pub in Hackney — restored its the Albion’s architecture reset its menu and renamed it The Virgin Queen, now the 14th pub in its profile.

Originally built by West's Brewery in the 1920s, the Virgin Queen actually started life as the Duke of Sussex — good thing it’s not that any longer as the sign might feature Prince Harry and Meghan Markle and have tomatoes or other leftovers from the markets thrown at it. (See the Duke of York pub in Fitzrovia.) The open kitchen in the rear room serves delicious daily offerings and classic Sunday roasts, and Wednesday nights, The Virgin Queen hosts possibly the most difficult pub quiz in the city (won by a team pulled together by this author).

Street Saviour: Ann couldn’t help herself in London. Could I?

Ann

I was late and had a train to catch — a much-needed day excursion to the Seven Sisters National Park on the route to Eastbourne, England. But there she was in front of me, a hunched over, likely Jamaican woman on crutches, dragging three bags and kicking another though Victoria station at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, trying to make it to the toilets. I contemplated and hoped someone would pick up the bag and help. No one did. I couldn’t let it go.

“Would you like some help?” I asked.

“Yes please,” came the reply. So I grabbed her dirty bags, walked her to the toilets and, as I had no cash, gave her my business card. “If you get in a bind, I told her, text my number. I know of a great shelter in North London that could possibly help. I used to volunteer there.” And then I found my friends, made no mention of the incident lest they think this American journalist still relatively new to the UK had “lost the plot” — in English terminology — and took off for a lovely day without a second thought. After all, I had given out my business card to sources, journalism students, other people sleeping rough and all matter of potential networking opportunities. Few had ever used it, let alone a homeless person. The day after I read all the tributes and chest-beating on social media for Pope Francis, who advocated for the poor, the criminal, those on society’s fringes, from people who never done a real day of advocacy in their lives, I had at least walked the talk. Somewhat.

Monday

After a solid walk, rested and refreshed, I awoke ready to take on the journalism industry again, pitch my articles and return to my book writing following an April of misery with the death of my favourite aunt, who succumbed to metastatic cancer, followed by a one-week trip to New York to promote a tennis start-up. I was ready to open my screen for the first time in weeks and feel the clack-clack of keys on my laptop. About three o’clock in the afternoon my phone dinged, however. It was Ann; she was in a real bind — in Bromley, of all places.

It was the last thing I ever expected. Ann would become the first actual test of my piety. Was I up for it? I had rescued a few cats off the streets of Samarkand and most recently, Baghdad — a few scratches on the hands — but all worked out. Ann would prove to be a very complex street cat.

“Is there nothing in Bromley for you, Ann?” I actually knew someone that way, a woman who ran a cat sanctuary from which I had adopted my latest eponymous moggy, Bromley, in 2022 — my personal best friend and editorial assistant. I dared not call her, however, as I was certain that she would say no and be awful — a theory proven later in the week. The woman would take in hundreds of feral animal, her home and gardens full of every type of stray imaginable, yet I somehow knew she wouldn’t provide shelter for a human being — not even in one of the kitty cottages in her backyard.

“No,” came the reply from Ann. “People are telling me that I smell and that I can’t be crawling up any stairs for health and safety reasons,” she sounded close to tears. “I’m not sure I can take much more of this; and I need to use the loi (sic).” Ann had to use the “loo” — British speak for toilet, ladies’ room, rest room. She wanted to say the highbrow thing in England’s insanely classist society. She just couldn’t spell it.

“Ok, it’s getting late. Can you make it to Islington?” I asked, figuring the answer to be “no way,” especially after I told her I had a small flat, up two flights of stairs and nothing to offer but a couch, a meal, a bath and the friendliness of Bromley and Dorothy, my recently acquired senior cat taken in out of mercy, more than anything. “Fine,” she said. Another surprise. Two hours later at Angel station, there Ann stood in her long puffer coat, pink cap, tired ballet flats with crutches and dirty bags, ready to offer the biggest embrace I had ever received from an English person I knew not at all. I took the hug and grabbed all the bags, and we set off to find her some fish and chips — the only thing she wanted to eat despite her supposed diabetes — in Chapel Market. After she literally crawled backward up my two flights of stairs and set her things on my couch, she ate and watched a few hours of Netflix — teenage dance and gymnastics dramas from Australia (not my genre). I also finally talked her into taking a bath and sorting through her dirty bags, which she eventually did. We did two loads of her laundry, and she reorganized all of her things into fresh tote bags, while I cleaned the ring of dirt Ann had left in my bathtub. She continued to watch her teen drama and play games on her phone, thinking I was having my own shower.

At some point, I fessed up to my best friend and business partner. “Okay, I would never do it, but we’re different,” said K, a pricing executive at an international agency. “Hide your jewellery.” I blanched at her remark.

“K, she had to literally crawl up my stairs, I don’t think she is going to make off with anything of mine. And if she did, I could tackle her before you could say Longines.”

“Fair point,” K acknowledged. “Just be safe, please.” I complied. Over the course of the night, information came like drips and drops from a leaky, rusty tap — water I nonetheless knew how to collect after 25 years in the media business. I gave a significantly fresher Ann my bed for the night, not knowing she actually wanted the couch. I told her we would fix her up and find her a place the next day. We said our good nights, and I texted every social worker and homeless advocate I knew, hoping — and actually praying — for a miracle.

Tuesday

I let Ann sleep until midday, until I proposed a pedicure before we hit the only social service agency anyone had sent: The Passage, a homeless charity in Westminster that supposedly dealt with the toughest cases in all of London. I wanted Ann to feel like a human being again, not like a bag of rubbish no one wanted. I knew she would get a completely unnecessary grilling from the tired case worker crunched to get meaningless data to qualify the paltry sums of earmarked money received from private donors and an austerity government. I tried mightily to give her a boost before this happened. Then I sat through the meeting with her, attempting to translate the bits and pieces of data her trauma- or illness-addled brain could manage for the social worker, who remained more stoic and graceful than I had possibly could have managed after eight hours of trying to help hopeless situations such as Ann’s.

As it turned out — and as I likely knew — this was not Ann’s first rodeo with the system of poverty in the UK. She was an excellent cattle-roper so to speak, and definitely fell into the category of “toughest cases” described by The Passage’s website. Ann was what the English call “intentionally homeless,” meaning that she had either fled from, refused to pay for or outright turned down council housing provide by the borough of Camden, one of 32 boroughs — in addition to the City of London — that make up the administrative divisions of Greater London, each with its own town council. If a London borough council finds someone intentionally homeless, it can yank its obligation to provide housing, or pass the buck to another council, or another, or another. I was beginning to understand these complications — a fairly horrific education or what Americans love to call an “ah-ha” moment.

That said, after reading articles and watching various media, including about the shoddy conditions of the Grenfell Tower council housing that caused the fire killing 70 people in 2017, I’m not sure I could blame her. She described places full of mold and infested with spiders, in addition to neighbours writing nasty, racist things on her front door. Ann knew the various patchwork of day centres and domestic violence shelters and churches with free meals that attempted to keep the “rough sleepers” existing for what seemed like posterity to me, at that point. She refused a referral to the Marylebone Project designed to keep women off the streets in the posh Westminster borough, saying that its workers provided only food and chairs and nowhere to sleep, despite its shiny, happy website, which highlighted the smattering of successes. Should they doze off, the women would be rudely awakened, she told the poker-faced, case worker at hour two of the interview. Ann wouldn’t deal with StreetLink, the homeless referral service used by every private shelter in London, either, having evidently been left by two workers in the rain after they discovered her “intentionally homeless” status. Neither I nor the case worker knew whom to trust anymore by then. I just know that I totally understood Ann’s occasional self-harming and desire to commit suicide after I heard the story. I would have.

I, personally, don’t believe in true altruism any longer. We all get something out of helping, whether it’s power, attention, a pat on the back, or a knighthood from King Charles — if anyone in the government notices. Ann gave me a feeling of usefulness or purpose, or just being liked, which I had been seeking since an extended family fight had broken out between me and the rest of my large Midwestern Catholic family over, essentially, a book of our family history started by me because I had felt unseen and unheard for decades.

My objective with Ann — as it always had been — was to find a stop gap between her cheques and her residence, help her on her feet and get her on her way. I also wanted to alleviate the grief, anxiety and an existential crisis about the point of my life following my aunt’s funeral.

Along the way, political questions started to form in my mind, considering the situation in Great Britain and in America. Following ten years of politicians cutting the heart out of social services for all the marginalised — as church leaders, including the late pope, were trying to encourage compassion for them — are the lot of us just supposed to think that everyone on the street is just putting us all on, faking a scam to make the Roma gangs a ton of money, or that UK’s socialism lite would prevail? Should we all throw a bunch of loose change to the people on our streets and then kick them off the curb? Are the idiot, naive ones of the population supposed to take them in one-by-one and spend our own hard-earned money as the tech billionaires and politicians and lobbyists just get richer off the dysfunctional government? If we’re all supposed to be practicing radical self-responsibility as Trust Fund Baby President Donald Trump across the ocean continues to slash and burn any kind of domestic and international aide in favour of amping up for yet another war in the Middle East to create more destruction, then who the hell is supposed to look out for the people would couldn’t look after themselves? Was I supposed to invoice the government for monies spent on Ann? Which department? If someone did the same in America now, did that department still exist thanks to the absolute insanity of a certain car-and-rocket business buyer (not founder) who drove his employees like indentured servants, while he seeded the world with his offspring and encouraged more people to do so?

It also wasn’t my first tangle with homelessness, either, having been in the system for a few days myself — once a bad substance abuser in New York and Doha, Qatar, where I managed to drink myself out of a good job, been flown back and then be left to my own devices. I spent three frightening nights clutching my possessions while I slept in a shelter in East New York, one of the worst areas of Brooklyn in terms of crime, poverty and hopelessness. As a last resort, family friends from Philadelphia bought me a train ticket and put me on their couch, essentially rescuing me. But those days were hopefully long gone — or so I hoped. I had somehow curbed my love of cheap, light beer, which I could literally drink all day, allowed my family to help in the way they wanted and got sober in 2012 after four years in-and-out of Alcoholics Anonymous, which I loathed with a passion reserved only for the mean girl cliques at my hypocritical Catholic Prep School in Oklahoma — one currently connected to the current Pope Leo XIV. Until the pandemic hit in 2020, which shut down my New York City running club and other networks, I had found solace in a group of people together on a physical mission. We didn’t sit in a chair and moan about our issues; we ran and talked and worked those brain endorphins. But unlike Ann, I also had access to the means to recovery and therefore, my former life as a journalist, as the daughter of two wealthy lawyers from Tulsa, one of the richest enclaves of America thanks to the billionaires that ran the oil and gas industry for 100 years. Ann didn’t. Ann had access to well… not much.

Ann had been born in London, the daughter of two Windrush workers who had taken advantage of the deal offered to Caribbean colonised nations in the 1950s: come to the home country, help our work corps, settle or eventually go back, and we’ll take care of you. While it worked out for some more than others, Ann had nonetheless been brought up well, dancing tap and ballet at one point — or so she told me — and working various jobs, including as an event planner. She even showed me the various books she had written and self-published on Amazon, an array of musings on grief, friendship and her family. Ann was neurodiverse, however, and likely didn’t care for herself well in her early years — something of which I was familiar, having drunk and partied myself into oblivion in my 20s, which was not unusual for a young journalist in New York.

Ann had two disabled brothers in Bermuda, along with aging parents who couldn’t really afford to help her. When their criticism cut, she took a verbal machete to them — an action I also knew well, having developed a knack from my own mother for sending emails that aimed for the head, and heart of a human being. Ann also suffered from chronic depression, something experienced by a significant number of journalists and creatives — and me. But again, she had nothing, whereby my family would always willingly pay for someone to help me with my anger and abandonment issues, usually with a drug and some milquetoast therapy. However, as Ann, literally 364 days my senior, was bouncing around London finding her way, with my wits and my family’s money, after grad school at Columbia University in New York, I put together a moderately successful career, in addition to acquiring a reputation as difficult and a lazy drunk. I wasn’t alone. A 2022 survey by the Canadian Journalism Forum on Violence and Trauma which interviewed almost 1,000 media workers found that 69 percent suffered from anxiety and 46 percent from depression. Since the COVID-19 pandemic and the world’s turmoil, those numbers have only risen. The best way to make it all go away: alcohol, of which I partook heartily, trying to balance a full-time magazine job with freelance writing to make all of my ends meet whilst living in Brooklyn, New York. Cracking open a beer at night was my reward for coming home from work to do more work and prove to my family that I was not the ne’er do well they thought; that I could make it on my own.

All of these thoughts crossed my mind as Ann and I sat behind the desk of Amanda, who just wanted to get through her last appointment of the day. As she tried to coax some sort of housing history out of an Ann. Ann could hardly remember one year of housing history, let alone the last five. Moreover, she outright refused to give out the phone numbers of he ex or any of the friends with whom she had falling outs over this, that or the other.

“But Ann,” I tried to cajole and coax, “this agency will just make a ten-second call to verify you exist. It’s no big deal. And those addresses, just get close to the mark and the staff will do the rest.” The social worker nodded in agreement.

“I would never want anyone giving out my number without my permission and I’m not going to do it. I still have some principles left. I am still human,” she kept reminding us, eyeing the poor girl as if she was a police interrogator and me with disdain for making her endure another round of this.

“Ann, if they’re not going to protect you, why protect them? You have to come first in this situation. These agencies just need the information to meet their own reporting requirements so they can keep receiving money from donors and the government to help people in your circumstances.” Apparently, I was hitting all the right notes as the social worker and I exchanged looks. I took pains to notice something — anything — that would win her over. I saw her white Birkenstocks and matching toenail polish, and told her how stylish it looked, that she was possibly once of the best-dressed social workers I’d seen. I felt sorry for both of them at the desk: one a once open, betrayed but still seemingly optimistic or deluded woman (or just someone that believed the website propaganda) hoping that the system would still come through for her; the other completely skeptical — possibly once idealistic — case manager knowing this appointment was already a failure.

After Amanda took as much information as she could possibly compile, we were given an email address and told to follow-up. Ann’s alternatives for the night: the Marylebone Project; a privately run shelter in North London, to which I once regularly delivered bread and vegetables, Shelter from the Storm; or my apartment again. I had heard from a friend in the social work community that Chief Executive and Co-Founder, Sheila Scott, could be surly — “difficult” in the King’s English — unbending and unwilling to help, but surely she could provide a place for Ann. I ordered an Uber, and as we drove to Shelter from the Storm, I started saying foxhole Hail Marys, hoping to find Sheila in an accepting mood.

The problem in all of this: I had come to actually like and care for Ann. She could be incredibly child-like and stubborn — a real pain in the ass and particular about her food, medicines, places and triggers. But who in this world isn’t? The night before, as I sat in my chair writing away, I would sometimes look up at this stranger on my sofa watching her badly acted, nonsensical Australian gymnastic shows marvelling at the floor routines and the balance beam acts. Or sometimes I would see her play her little phone games with glee, a grin across her face. Other times, I would notice her texting her friends and family, trying to find for herself a more suitable environment that didn’t involve too much stress. Ann was well aware that she was on the clock at my place; I had no reason to remind her. All the woman wanted was Netflix, a couch, some calm and her games, which she had told me were recommended by a therapist to counter any negative emotions. Why was this so hard to provide for her, I wondered, until I had to coax her myself to drink her laxative and take her inhalers, as if she was my child. Ann likely needed an assisted-living or nursing home.

At Shelter from the Storm, Sheila wasn’t in a magnanimous mood, as I soon discovered upon her opening of the locked door.

“Hi there, do you remember me? I used to deliver vegetables here,” I told her as an introduction.

“Yeah, and why are you here now?” she asked.

I gestured to Ann and told Sheila I had a friend who needed some help, who was slipping through the cracks, who needed a place to stay until she could receive her benefits, who was peaceful and relatively self-contained and who wouldn’t cause any trouble. Would she help?

“I have told all of you lot of volunteers that in no uncertain terms that I would not take your referrals,” she said to me before she slammed the door in my face.

“Wait, please,” I said, before I stopped her. The stress tears started the flow; Ann turned to her phone and her games. “This woman has been through hell and she has nowhere to go but my flat until her next round of benefits. She has been beaten, verbally abused, tossed around by mall security, transit workers, library staff and hospital aides.” At this point, I was down on my knees, a position to which I had not been familiar since my last Catholic mass, some eight or so years prior. “Please help her; I am begging you.”

“No, our insurance won’t allow it.”

“Please, I will be a night volunteer, as I promised before.”

“We don’t need volunteers.” An obvious lie. They needed more volunteers than they could count.

“Please, I will make a donation.”

“We don’t need donations.”

“Please, my god, have some mercy on Ann — I cannot take care of her. She is a nice lady and would be a welcome addition to your household. She is no trouble.” That’s when the dressing down really began.

“How many times do I have to tell you people that a) we are full; and b) we don’t take referrals from volunteers?” She paused and looked at Ann, then looked at me. I thought perhaps she would relent.

“Go through Streetlink or one of the other homeless teams. Then maybe I’ll consider.”

“We have. I have been everywhere. You are our last hope for today.”

“Then I suppose you have no hope.”

At that point, I had no strength left to argue or fight or even call her names — a bit unbelievable for me. I stood up, took Ann by the shoulder and walked away. “Let’s go home, Ann; how about a night of movies and phone games?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t notice the tears. “Sounds perfect,” she replied, and we repeated the previous night’s ritual. How could someone be so cruel, I wondered? How could someone from a country that prides itself on tolerance and etiquette live with themselves after turning away a disabled, homeless woman? I would have an answer soon enough.