The World According to Bob

my arms. I then popped the treat into his mouth drawing a couple of audible aaahs from somewhere behind me.
    There were times when Bob’s intelligence and ability to understand the nuances of what’s going on around him defied belief. This was one such moment.  Bob had played to the crowd totally. It was as if he had wanted to make a statement. It was as if he was saying: ‘I’m with James, and I’m really happy to be with James. And anyone who says otherwise is mistaken. End of story.’ That was certainly the message that most of the onlookers got. One or two of them were familiar faces, people who had bought magazines off me in the past or stopped to say hello to Bob. They turned to the woman in the tweed suit and made their feelings plain.
    ‘We know this guy, he’s cool,’ one young man in a business suit said.
    ‘Yes, leave them alone. They’re not doing anyone any harm and he looks after his cat really well,’ another middle-aged lady said. One or two other people made supportive noises. As various other voices chipped in, not one of them backed up the lady in the tweed suit.
    The expression that had formed on her face by this point told its own story. She was, by now, even redder than ever, almost purple in fact. She spluttered and grumbled for a moment or two but made no real sense. Clearly the penny had dropped and she realised that she had lost this particular battle. So she turned on her heels and disappeared once more into the crowds, this time – thankfully – permanently.
    ‘You OK, James?’ one of the onlookers asked me, as I kneeled down to check on Bob. He was purring loudly but his breathing was steady and there was no sign of any injury from when he was dropped to the ground.
    ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, not being entirely honest.
    I hated it when people implied I was using Bob in some way. It hurt me deeply. In a way we were victims of our circumstances. Bob wanted to be with me, of that I was absolutely certain. He’d proven that time and time again. Unfortunately, at the moment, that meant that he had to spend his days with me on the streets. Those were the simple facts of my life. I didn’t have a choice.
    The downside was that this made us easy targets, sitting ducks for people to judge. We were lucky, most people judged us kindly. I had learned to accept that there would always be those who would not.
     

Chapter 3
    The Bobmobile
     
     
     
     
     
    It was a balmy, early summer afternoon and I had decided to knock off from work early. The sunny weather seemed to have put a smile on everyone’s face and I’d reaped the benefits, selling out my supply of magazines in a few hours.
    Since I’d started selling The Big Issue a couple of years earlier, I’d learned to be sensible, so I’d decided to plough some of the money back into buying some more magazines for the rest of the week. With Bob on my shoulders, I headed over to see Rita, the co-ordinator on the north side of Islington High Street on the way back to catch the bus home.
    From a distance, I could see that she was having an animated conversation with a group of vendors in red bibs who were huddled around something. It turned out to be a bicycle. I got on well with Rita, so knew that I could gently take the mickey.
    ‘What’s this, Rita?’ I joked. ‘Riding in the Tour de France?’
    ‘Don’t think so, James,’ she smiled. ‘Someone just sold it to me in exchange for ten magazines. I really don’t know what to do with it to be honest. Bikes aren’t really my thing.’
    It was obvious the bike wasn’t in prime condition. There were hints of rust on the handlebars and the light at the front had cracked glass. The paintwork had a few chips and nicks and, just for good measure, one of the mudguards had been snapped in half. Mechanically, though, it looked like it was in reasonable condition.
    ‘Is it roadworthy?’ I asked Rita.
    ‘Think so,’ she shrugged. ‘He muttered something about one of the sets of brakes needing a bit of attention but that’s all.’
    She could see my mind was working overtime.
    ‘Why don’t you give it a try, see what you think?’
    ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Can you keep an eye on Bob for a second?’
    I was no Bradley Wiggins but I had ridden bikes throughout my childhood and again in London. As part of my rehabilitation a few years earlier, I had been briefly involved with a bicycle building course so I knew a bit about cycle maintenance. It felt good to know some