Friday 20 May 2011

Distressed Prostitute

When I was twenty I lived with Jane in South London beside Kennington Park. On one dark, cold night I was walking the short distance from Oval Underground Station to our flat down Camberwell New Road. The weather was unpleasant and, since I was keeping my head down as I walked against the wind and rain, I almost barrelled straight into the distressed woman.

Her clothes were in tatters, she certainly wasn't naked but at the same time you wouldn't say that she was fully dressed. She was bawling and, in between the tears, she expressed her distress to the traffic, shouting at the passing cars. She was in quite a state. Very drunk and her make up was smeared.

I asked her if she was ok and she told me that she had had an argument with her boyfriend, a bastard she said. He had hit her, stole her money and ripped her clothes.

Jane and our flatmates were surprised when I turned up at our place with her. But, after all, she couldn't get home like that. Jane kindly gave her a jacket to wear, we made her some soup, over which she cried more tears, this time of drunken gratitude, and misled her into thinking that we had no alcohol in the flat.

She was very grateful and confessed that she had been reluctant to accept my offer to come back with me in case I would have beaten her also.

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