I was walking back to work chewing my roast beef sandwich when a little old lady in a clown dress and a hat stopped me to ask for directions. She was holding a map and muttering. And I asked her what was wrong.
"The taxi dropped me off and I can't find twenty one. Twenty one. twenty one" [Oh, that Sam Sparro song is in my head now. Damn]
I gave her a look and said there is no twenty one on Nichols Street. She brushed me off angrily and kept walking.
I stood at the entrance for a bit deciding whether I should help her out. And against my better judgement [five years of catholic school- unwasted], I dumped my sandwich on the desk and headed back onto the street.
She was still walking up and down the street talking to herself "no-one can help me" and getting angrier and more frustrated as she paced.
"Look, lady. I don't know what you're looking for.. but that building over there? is 13-29. There's no twenty one on Nichols"
And she gets even more pissed off [adding to my multitude of sins, I'm pissing off old ladies] "Yes there is!"
Me: There is not. Thats 13-29. Unless your twenty one is inside.
Her: Twenty one is a house!
Me: That's clearly not a house
Her: No-one can help me! I'm walking up and down and no-one can help me!
Me: I'm providing you with all the help I can possibly provide! [Starts thinking of my sandwich. My poor sweet sandwich]
Her: no-one can help me!
She walks past and continues her fruitless search for twenty one on Nichols St.
I go back in and chew my lunch. That's something I also learned in catholic school, sometimes you have to stop and listen to people otherwise you'll be ninety five and walking up and down hills trying to find a house that doesn't exist. Also at ninety-five if you're still feeling sorry for yourself. She's right, no-one can help you
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