Seen in Vigo.

When I went down to the supermarket on Saturday morning I spotted a familiar figure, but one I had not seen for a while. A diminutive figure, not much above five feet in height, hair scraped back into a rather greasy tight bun, rather well wrapped up for a warm day, chatting animatedly to someone outside the supermarket entrance. Soy-Muy-Pobre was back. I slipped past, not quite ready to be assaulted with her tale of woe just yet, and wanting to reach a point where I could take another look without attracting attention. Yes, it was definitely I'm-Only-a-Poor-Little-Beggar-Girl, the name I have chosen to give her in English. 

She used to be our regular supermarket beggar but this is the first time I have seen her this year. She wasn't around at all when we came in February-March. I assumed she had found richer pickings elsewhere. Now, however, she seems to have returned. I think she lives somewhere between our street, Aragón, and Travesía de Vigo, the next major street down, as I have come across her with her rather podgy child on the steps which lead from one area to the other. 

Coming out of the supermarket, there was no way I could avoid her. She was inordinately pleased to see me: big smiles and a kiss on both cheeks. No doubt very glad to see a source of income restored to her. She always looks very cheerful until she goes into her spiel. And so she greeted me and chatted away for a while in a perfectly normal voice. Then, as if remembering her purpose in hanging around the supermarket, her whole demeanour changed. Her very posture became cringing, her voice became a whine and, like a character from Dickens, she related her miseries: she has been in a very bad way (this despite looking quite well fed) and her son has had 'varicela', which I think is chickenpox. What's more he passed it on to her husband, who was really ill with it. And there she is, without even a gas 'bombona' to heat water and cook properly in her house. Then came the clincher: could I not give her €10 to help her out? 

I call that pretty good begging: a bit of disarming cheerfulness, some good fawning, a very creditable tale of woe and finally, BANG!, a demand for a quite specific sum of money. And a not inconsiderable sum at that. I've had homeless young men in Manchester tell me they need a just couple of pounds more so that they have enough for a night in a hostel but none has ever asked me for a tenner. 

I gave her some loose change, which she looked at disappointedly, not to say sneeringly, and repeated her request for a larger contribution to her cause. To no avail. I turned down her offer to carry my shopping for me and went on my way. As I approached the door of our flats, only yards away, an elderly lady with whom I almost a nodding acquaintance said to me, "!Hay que mandarla a la mierda!" (You should tell her to get lost!) So it goes. I shall try to avoid Saturday morning shopping in future. 

Later in the day we strolled out to post our ballot papers for the EU referendum. These postal ballot papers have been sitting here for a couple of weeks and we decided it was time to send them on their way before the polling day was upon us and we realised that we had forgotten all about it. It's far too easy to let things slide. Foreign nationals, friends of mine who have lived in the UK for years, are urging everyone they know to be sure to vote as they are not allowed to do so, much to their annoyance. Even Tony Blair and Gordon Brown are urging Labour supporters to go out and vote for us to stay in the EU. Will anyone follow THEIR urgings? I just hope they don't put people off. 

Anyway, we popped our envelopes into the yellow post box by the roundabout and then became aware of a lot of pipping and hooting. Something was clearly approaching the roundabout. And en masse. Whatever could it be? Was some celebrity coming through? Massed police motorcycles blocked one carriageway, having urged a last few cars to go on through. 

What looked like television cameras were in evidence but still no sign of whatever this was all about. So we asked an old couple standing there if they knew what was going on. It transpired that once a year all the motorcyclists of Vigo are invited to join in a sort of race through the streets of Vigo. Well, no, not a race as such, the old lady corrected herself, more of a "desfile", a procession. They choose a different route each year. 

By now a host of motorcyclists had gathered behind the police line. Gradually the pipping and hooting gave way to silence. And then the haunting tones of the Last Post were heard. The motorcyclists had mostly removed their helmets. Some stood with their right hand on their breast. Eyes were lowered. The TV cameraman did not flinch from taking close-ups though. Of course, they had chosen to stop by the rather tacky monument to people who have died in road accidents. This thing appeared some time last year. It's a kind of artificial tree stump with huge, silver-coloured tears running down it and a bit of a plaque explaining what it is for. It seems to me to be in rather dubious taste but people leave flowers there from time to time, which is perhaps better than tying them to a lamp post! 

Anyway, the Last Post was played. The old gent who spoke to us was tut-tutted by his good lady when he remarked on the trumpet player's missed note at one point. Then it was done and helmets were donned once more. And with a mass hooting and pipping, with a flourish of victory signs and other kinds of waving and with a lot of exhaust, they were off along the street. And everyone went about their late Saturday afternoon business. 


These are things that happen in Vigo!