Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

I knew already that I’d have no trouble selling the ten copies. In fact, I might even be heading back to Sam for some more stock before the end of the day.

Sure enough I sold six copies within the first hour. Most people gave me the correct money but one elderly gent in a smart, tweed suit, gave me a fiver. I was already feeling vindicated in making this move. I knew I wouldn’t always fare this well and that there would be ups and downs. But I already felt like I’d taken a big step in a new direction.

It had been a pretty good day already, but the icing on the cake came after I’d been there for about two and a half hours. By now I was down to my last two magazines. I was suddenly aware of a bit of a commotion inside the station. All of a sudden a small group of London Underground staff appeared in the concourse in full view of me. They seemed to be deep in conversation about something and one or two of them were on walkie-talkies.

My mind couldn’t help going back to what had recently happened to me. I wondered whether there had been another incident and whether some other poor sap was going to be fitted up for a crime that he hadn’t committed.

Whatever the panic was, however, it soon passed and they began to disperse. It was then that the large, sweaty figure of the ticket attendant spotted me and Bob outside the station. He immediately marched in our direction.

He looked hassled and hot tempered and was as red as a beetroot in the face. They say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, so I decided to stay cool.

‘What the f*** are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d been locked up. You know you’re not supposed to be here.’

I didn’t say anything at first. Instead, very slowly and deliberately, I flashed him my Big Issue badge.

‘I’m just doing my job, mate,’ I said, savouring the mixture of bewilderment and anger that immediately began spreading across his face. ‘I suggest you get on with yours.’

I hadn’t got many decisions right in my life. Whenever I’d been given an opportunity in the past ten years I’d screwed things up big time. Within a couple of days of deciding to become a Big Issue seller, however, I was pretty sure that I’d taken a step in the right direction for once.

It had an immediate impact on life for me and Bob. For a start it gave us more structure. I effectively had a Monday to Friday job, well, a Monday to Saturday one, in fact.

For those first two weeks, Bob and I worked at Covent Garden from Monday to Saturday, which tied in with the publication of the magazine. The new edition would come out each Monday morning.

We’d be there from sometime in the middle of the morning, and often finish at the end of the early evening rush hour, which was around 7p.m. We stayed for as long as it took us to sell a batch of papers.

Being with Bob had already taught me a lot about responsibility but the Big Issue took that to another level. If I wasn’t responsible and organised I didn’t earn money. And if I didn’t earn money Bob and I didn’t eat. So from that very first fortnight, I had to grasp how to run my Big Issue pitch as a business.

For someone whose life had been completely disorganised for the best part of ten years, this was a huge leap. I’d never been great with money, and had to live from hand to mouth. I surprised myself with the way I adapted to the new demands.

There were downsides, of course, there were bound to be. There is no sale or return with the Big Issue so I learned quickly that if you miscalculated the amount of magazines, you could lose out quite badly. You can take a serious blow if you are stuck with fifty papers on Saturday night. Come Monday, you get no credit against the next purchase from the old magazines, so the old papers are pulp. At the same time, you didn’t want to under buy. Too few and you’d sell out too quickly and miss out on willing buyers. It was no different from running Marks and Spencer’s – well, in theory.

The other thing you had to factor in was that there was a huge difference in the quality of the magazines from week to week. Some weeks it would be a good issue packed with interesting stuff. Other weeks it would be quite dull and really hard to sell, especially if the cover didn’t have some famous film or rock star on it. It could be a bit unfair.

It took a while to get the balance right.

While I was working out the best way to sell the Big Issue , I still lived from hand to mouth. What I earned between Monday and Saturday evening was generally gone by Monday morning. Sometimes at the start of each week I’d turn up at the coordinator’s stand with only a few quid. If Sam was there I’d ask her to do me a favour and buy ten papers for me on the understanding I’d pay her back as soon as I had some money. She would usually do this for vendors who she knew she could trust to repay her and I had done this once or twice before when I was desperate and always repaid her within hours. I knew the money was coming out of her pocket, not the Big Issue ’s, so it was only fair.

Then when I had sold those copies I’d go back and pay off what I owed and get some more papers. I’d build it up that way from there.

As a result of this, in real terms, I was actually making less money than I had been busking with Bob. But as I settled down into this new routine, I decided it was a price worth paying. The fact that I was working legitimately on the streets made a huge difference to me. If I got stopped by a policeman, I could produce my badge and be left in peace. After the experience with the Transport Police that meant a lot.

The next couple of months working at the tube station flew by. In many ways it was similar to busking. We’d attract the same sort of people: a lot of middle-aged and elderly ladies, groups of female students, gay guys but also people from all walks of life.

One day during the early part of the autumn of 2008 we were approached by a very flamboyant-looking guy. He had bleached-blond hair and was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and I could tell that the leather jacket and jeans must have cost a fortune. I was sure he was an American rock star; he certainly looked like one.

As he’d walked along, he had immediately spotted Bob. He stopped in his tracks and smiled.

‘That’s one cool cat,’ he said, in a sort of transatlantic drawl.

He looked really familiar but I couldn’t for the life of me place him. I was dying to ask him who he was, but thought it was rude. I was glad I didn’t.

He spent a minute on his knees just stroking Bob.

‘You guys been together long?’ he asked.

‘Uhhmm, gosh, let me think,’ I said, having to work it out. ‘Well we got together in the spring of last year, so it’s about a year and a half now.’

‘Cool. You look like real soul brothers,’ he smiled. ‘Like you belong together.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, by now desperate to know who the hell this guy was.

Before I could ask him he got up and looked at his watch.

‘Hey, gotta go, see you guys around,’ he said, reaching into a pocket in his jacket and producing a wad of cash.

He then dropped a tenner into my hand.

‘Keep it,’ he said, as I began to rummage around for change. ‘You guys have a good day.’

‘We will,’ I promised him. And we did.

It made such a difference that I was now working outside the tube station legitimately. I’d had a couple of moments with some of the familiar faces from the tube station again, one or two of whom had given me some filthy looks. I’d ignored them. The rest of the staff there were actually fine. They knew I was getting on with my job and as long as I didn’t offend or harass anyone, that was fine.