The Economics of a Cup on a Street

The dismal science, right enough, this wee economy of mine! Incessant, piddling rain falling out of a dull sky (I can see fifty per cent of the entire sky at any one time, apparently. Some joker came up to tell me this a few days ago. Tall, skinny radge. Left all of twenty pence in my cup).

It’s a Costa coffee cup I found in a bin in the Kirkgate. Medium-sized, I reckon. Would take me a wee while to beg enough for a coffee from Costa’s, even if they did decide to serve me.

I was thinking that some university should employ me on some sort of ‘market research’ basis. A homeless street-dwelling chap like me could provide valuable data for some study of human kindness. How many folk out of a hundred? sort of thing. How many passers-by offer me money, food or even just a kind word? It varies but it’s not that many. Maybe just the one or two out of a ton.

I have to be aware of ‘good cup management’ in this game. Finance receptacle strategy. If I’m having a good day, it’s prudent to stove away any high-value coins (and on the odd occasion, a note) so that it doesn’t look as if I’m rolling in it. Cup runneth over sort of thing. Enough to afford a prozzie and a five-star hotel. Got to maintain the impression of dire need. Can’t be sitting on the pavement sporting designer labels with a taxi with its engine running nearby.

Some folk make out that this is a lifestyle choice. That this actually the life I’ve chosen. Like I could have been a tax lawyer but I chose this instead. They come up and tell me this. You must want to do this, they say. Life offers plenty of options, they pontificate. As if they’d like to sit on their arse on a rain-soaked pavement for eight hours a day.

They don’t realise that once you’re down this far; once you have resorted to this, it is so, so hard to get back up again. Life becomes day-to-day survival, hand-to-mouth. Microeconomics. Just me and the tool of my trade. A medium-size Costa coffee cup.