The World According to Bob

this , I told myself in the warmth of the bus.
    Making money was so hard, especially because the gap between those that had it and those that didn’t was growing ever greater. Working on the streets of London really was a tale of two cities, as I was reminded again a few days later.

    I was standing just outside the concourse of Angel tube station with Bob on my shoulders around lunchtime, when I noticed a bit of a commotion going on inside at the ticket gate where passengers emerged from the trains below. A group of people were having an animated conversation with the attendants. When it was over they were let through seemingly without paying and started heading in our direction.
    I recognised the large, slightly scruffy, blond-haired figure at the centre of the group immediately. It was the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. He was with a young boy, his son I assumed, and a small group of smartly-dressed assistants. They were marching straight towards my exit.
    I didn’t really have time to think so I just reacted instinctively as he approached me.
    ‘How about a Big Issue , Boris?’ I said, waving a magazine in the air.
    ‘I’m in a bit of a rush,’ he said, looking flustered. ‘Hold on.’
    To his credit he started digging around in his pockets and produced a pile of coins which he then proceeded to drop into my hands.
    ‘There you go. More valuable than British pounds,’ he said.
    I didn’t understand what he meant but was grateful nevertheless.
    ‘Thanks very much indeed for supporting Bob and me,’ I said, handing him a magazine.
    As he took it, he smiled and tilted his head slightly at Bob.
    ‘That’s a nice cat you’ve got there,’ he said.
    ‘Oh yes, he’s a star, he’s even got his own travelcard so he can travel around,’ I said.
    ‘Amazing. Really,’ he said, before heading off in the direction of Islington Green with his entourage.
    ‘Good luck, Boris,’ I said as he disappeared from view.
    I hadn’t wanted to be rude and check what he’d given me a moment or two earlier, but, judging by the weight and number of the coins, it felt way more than the cover price of the magazine.
    ‘That was generous of him wasn’t it, Bob?’ I said, fishing around for the coins which I’d hurriedly stuffed in my jacket pocket.
    As I looked at the small pile of cash, however, my heart sank. The coins all bore the mark Confoederatio Helvetica .
    ‘Oh no, Bob,’ I said. ‘He gave me bloody Swiss Francs.’
    It was only then that the penny dropped, as it were.
    ‘That’s what he meant when he said more valuable than British pounds ,’ I muttered to myself.
    Except, of course, they weren’t more valuable.
    It obviously hadn’t occurred to him that, while foreign bank notes can be exchanged at most banks and bureaux de change, coins cannot. They were, effectively, worthless. To me, at least.
    One of our friends at the tube station, Davika, passed by a moment or two later.
    ‘Saw you with Boris, James,’ she smiled. ‘Did he see you all right?’
    ‘No he didn’t as a matter of fact,’ I said. ‘ He gave me a pile of Swiss Francs.’
    She shook her head.
    ‘That’s the rich for you,’ she said. ‘They live on a different planet from the rest of us.’
    I just nodded quietly in agreement. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me.
    A few years earlier, I’d been busking in Covent Garden. It had been approaching 7.30pm, curtain-up time at most of the theatres and opera houses in the area, and a lot of people were breaking into a panicky trot as they emerged from the tube station. Unsurprisingly, few of them had any time to notice me strumming away with Bob at my feet, but one particularly flustered looking character in a bow tie did acknowledge me.
    He saw me from a few yards away and instantly dug into his pocket. He was a very grand looking character with a mane of grey hair. I could have sworn I recognised him from the television, but couldn’t place him. When I saw him reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a scrunched up note, I thought my luck was in. It was red and looked all the world like a big denomination, possibly a £50 note. That was the only note I knew that had red in it.
    ‘There you go, my man,’ he said, thrusting it into my hand as he slowed down for a brief moment.
    ‘Cheers. Thanks very much indeed,’ I said.
    ‘Have a good evening,’ he said, laughing as he picked up speed again and ran towards the Piazza.
    I had no idea why