This evening was the closest I have every come to being a tramp.
No, I didn’t give up my IT job to start selling copies of The Big Issue…
On the way home from work, I popped into the local shops to buy a pack of Thatcher’s Gold Cider.
Immediately after paying, a homeless man approached the cashier and paid for his own cans of cider. Sure, mine was a quality cider made from apples in Somerset, while his was super strength paint-stripper made from robot tears in a car garage; but the principal was that we both bought cider. For shame.
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