Into the night. There but for the grace of God, go I

We forget sometimes how lucky we are; to be born in the latter half of the 20th century. Ensconced in our middle class (even if working class) affluence. Our middle class mediocrity. Our middle class holier than thou!

We don't struggle to put bread (and I mean just bread, don't worry about butter) on the table. We don't worry about our children going barefoot to school for want of shoes; wandering about in soiled underwear because we have none that are clean - only having the one pair of underpants, knickers!

No, we are not poor! Even if, on a scale of one to ten, we are poorer than most. No, we are not destitute. The state will help. Welfare will help. If we choose wisely, then there will always be a safety net now; at least in western democracies.

So, why so morose?

Well, on re-reading my last blog (check for spelling, typos etc, doesn't do much good, they still appear) I was struck by something that happened to me, some 10 or 15 years ago.

I was walking through Argyle Square, once notorious for prostitution, whores every 5 yards around the square, at about 8 o'clock in the morning on the way to work. A young woman called out from across the road, "Business?" (The prostitutes no longer cry "A little fun, dearie?" A whispered "Hows yer father?" If they ever did! Now, it's a little more formal, a little more business-like, a little more professional. After all, their's is the oldest 'profession' in the world! So they say.)

She was perhaps 16, 18 years old! Mini skirt, low slung top, high-legged boots, legs up to the armpits. Not completely unattractive. A rartity in King's Cross at the time. But the age of a daughter I might have had. Possibly my daughter, unbeknown to me. And yet strangely, already, aged beyond her years. I replied, in jest, "At this hour, you must be joking!" And I went on my way.

At around 7.00pm, I left work and headed off down the tube station. As I approached the entrance a familar voice whispered, "Business?" Yes, it was the same girl, woman. Dressed in exactly the same clothes; exactly the same disintersted smile, and demeanour. "It's been a long day," I said. "And it's not over yet! By a long way!" She ignored me. I wasn't trade! And yet nonetheless, I felt so sorry for this poor soul that I barely kept myself from crying on the way home. (Sometimes, men can get emotional, you know! Yes, really!)

To be trying to turn tricks from sun-up to sun-down, and beyond. What kind of life would that be, even at fifty? Not just some worn out tramp with no life to look forward to, only regrets? But with all your life ahead of you?

At that age, at the age she was, barely starting on life's progress, I could look forward to a university education; a comfortable middle class life full of the luxuries that a decent salary would provide; contentment. A 'normal' life!

And what did she have to look forward to? A habit? The next fix? Taking her away from the life she had become accusomed to, addicted to? A life full of unloving, 'KY lubricated' sex? A pimp who beat her senseless? The nauseating, vomit-inducing stench, and taste, of long, unwashed penises. As she gave a quick blow job! With or without. £1.50 a 'shot', if I remember correctly from my last blog.

Maybe she was happy. It would be nice to think so, salve the conscience; the cameraderie, all 'us girls together', but I doubt it.

I occasionally think of her, my harlot, well I just did so....(and where do I get MY harlot from?).

Where is she now? Dead? From an overdose? Happly married, her past behind her? The abortions, long since vanished into dust? Or does she still think about them? The children that might have been; given, taken away, in one form or another. Did she escape? Or is she still trapped? And is she still plying the same trade? One more quick fuck to while away the boring, silent solitude of lonely nights on the pavement? The nilihism of the soul!

I hope not!

Most-times, I am glad, despite all the misery, the sadness, all the disappoinment, heartache, ill-luck, that I did not have to endure that which life COULD have have brought me!

To end on a more cheerful note. When I was younger (much younger), I used to know a part-time doxie. Part time waitress, part time 'lady of the night'. Divorcee, mid-forties, bumps in the right places. She was amazingly content with her life. A regular clientelle with occasional recommendations; visiting businessmen and the like, 'respectable gentlemen'. But then she didn't get into it until late in life; she had had the chances and mostly took advantage of what had come her way.

This was almost like a life choice. Regular sex without commitment, with men who probably did genuinely care for her, even if in the end it was merely a business transaction. Why keep coming back otherwise? The freedom to do what she pleased during the winter months when tourism slackened off and there was not much call for waitresses; a nice living was to be had for a handful of tricks a week. And the days to yourself.

With my days to myself, perhaps I should seriously think about that? A positive life choice? No perhaps not. No-one would pay! Well, certainly not the second time!