Cake

It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning as I stand at the bar, pen in hand and think about what I want to write in the wedding book. It’s been a good wedding party and it’s been really nice to see old friends again. It has reached a point though where I realise that all my friends present, save for one are part of a couple and discussion at different points of the evening has pondered around who will be next. For my own part, I arrived on my own and I will leave on my own. I’m starting to feel a bit like Bridget Jones with a penis as a sort of philosophical melancholy begins to envelope me, due in large part I don’t doubt, to the evening’s alcohol.

I’m feeling sentimental as the pen touches the paper. I don’t want to write a standard ‘hope you’ll both be happy together, best wishes’ type message. I start writing and the more I write, the more gushy I get and in my mind I am filling the page with a tender heartfelt message to one of my best friends and his beautiful new wife. In reality though, I can’t see a bloody thing as I don’t have my glasses with me. The lighting is dim and my handwriting as far as I can tell is reminiscent of that of a two year old just given his first set of crayons.

And then it’s the end of the party, the lights come on and I hug my friend and his wife goodbye. “Here, have some cake” she says, “we’ve got stacks of it”. I take 3 pieces, wrapped up in napkins – I’m bound to get the munchies on my way home. As I leave I walk past two people from the party, snogging in the doorway, which only serves to remind me that I’m going home to an empty flat and I’m spending the night alone.

The night is cool and crisp and I decide that a walk from Waterloo to The Embankment will lend itself to some much needed sobriety. As I walk I pass beneath the London Eye and look up at the structure, reflecting on how in approximately 30 minutes time I will view it again from my balcony as a distant part of the London cityscape. As I look skywards at this huge bicycle wheel on London’s south bank, my attention is caught by shouting just 50 or so metres from me. A petite girl is arguing with her much taller boyfriend it seems, who is in turn hanging his head and looking like a schoolboy who’s mother has just discovered his porn stash. I watch the scene in front of me unfold as she shouts and swears at him. She animatedly waves her arms and pushes him away from her before stomping off, leaving him to follow behind forlornly. Phew, I muse as I shake my head, at least I don’t have to put up with that sort of shit.

I get to Hungerford Bridge and walk up the stairs just in front of the Royal Festival Hall. A homeless man asks for change. I look at him and shrug my shoulders “Sorry mate” I say. “That’s ok, thanks for not ignoring me” he says. Suddenly I’m feeling guilty, but I can’t give him any money as I’ve already said that I have none and if I give him some now then he’ll know I was lying. “I’ve got some wedding cake – it’s not much, but at least it’s something to eat”. I hand him one of the three pieces of wrapped up wedding cake in my hand. “Oh thank you, cheers mate” he says, surprised. “Ah, don’t worry about it” I say, as I turn and carry on in the direction I was going.

I take in the view over the city and a sobriety begins to descend upon me. Giving the piece of cake to the homeless guy has lifted my mood as I carry on across the bridge, itself lightly scattered with an assortment of couples, party goers and drunken teens.

I get to the other end of the bridge and see a beautiful German Shepherd dog lying down and trying to get the attention of it’s owner – a homeless person who is sitting on the ground, slouched backwards and seems to be buried somewhere within a Parker coat. I look at the dog and the owner as I pass and get to the top of the stairs that lead down to The Embankment. I start to walk down before slowing as I pause on the fourth step and look back at the dog. There is something about the way it is nudging it’s owner that makes me walk back up the steps and over to whoever is inside the Parker. I tug the sleeve of the coat “Are you ok mate?” I say.

Two hands reach up and pull the hood of the coat back from the face of the person buried inside. It’s a thin man of about 60, with short grey hair and a light grey beard, who has a look of total surprise about him. “Are you ok?” I repeat. “Oh, hello, er...” he says. I’ve no idea how long he’s been there or what his circumstances are and maybe it’s my lightened mood or maybe it’s the sight of his dog, but I want to help him or do something of some sort. I look at him and his dog “Have you eaten anything?” I say “Look, I know it isn’t much, but er..”. I hand him the two remaining pieces of wedding cake “There, it’s wedding cake.” He looks at me but doesn’t say a word – the tears cascading down his face say enough as he puts an arm around his dog. “Look, it’s wedding cake!!” he says. “Thank you, thank you, God bless you!!” “It’s alright” I say as I turn and head down the stairs.

I hail the first black cab I can find and climb in the back. “Where to mate?” says the cabbie. “Wapping” I say as I look out of the window at drunken revellers in the cold and think of the old man and his dog. Then I think of my warm flat, my tea bags and the milk in my fridge and I smile inwardly. Suddenly I’m more content than I have been all night.