G'day Nice Lady, Aaaaaright . . .

A few years ago, working in a central location too awkward for Dublin's pathetic public transport network to handle, I took up cycling in a serious way. I was inspired by my time in Florence, where cycling was the norm and a carefree, easy sort of thing - much like life there. I'm an unlikely candidate for city cycling - by which I mean physical activity after insufficient coffee, followed by a daily commute awash in sweat and mild danger; it's not really my bag. But, against the odds, I came to love it, and a good thing too, because it has become one of my favourite aspects of our life in London.


Drink and cycling, however, don't mix; you only have to hit the cobbles in Piazza Santissima Annunziata once to drive it well and truly home. So, on the days I have hot plans after work, I bus or tube it.


The only part of taking the tube that is any good at all is the walk down, during which I think about the day ahead and nothing at all. By the time I get to the station, I'm in a world of my own. ‘Aaaaarrrrriiiightnaaayssssladyaaaarrrrriiiight’, twinkles my favourite Big Issue seller. Everyday, the same routine. He never misses me, or any of the other nice ladies, even when I think he's busy making change or lighting a cigarette in the wind. I can be on the other side of the turnstile by the time I hear it, ‘Aaaaarrrrriiiight . . .’.

Sometimes, I try to sneak through without him seeing me, just to test him.

The great thing was that he moved during the day, selling at the supermarket where I often grab lunch-makings, so the pleasure was twice mine. 'I gets lonely, you know . . . missing all dose naaaysladeeeees'. Who can argue with that?

The thing is, he was beaten up and hospitalised the other week. It took me a while to check up that this was true, but it was. He told me himself when he got out, nothing daunted:

'They waited until I was at the end of my day, you know. They wait for the money. And then they come. But it's aaaaright, you know. They didn't get nuffing from me.'

Beating up Big Issues sellers. A new low for London, I have to say it, but let's hear it for the man in question. He's back on form, charming the ladies and selling the zines - but now I only see him at lunch. I miss my morning greeting.