The Kindness of Strangers

I'm in Gloucester Road, an area so upmarket the stray dogs are poodles. Arriving at the address scribbled on my hand I find myself barred by the most impressive set of security gates I've ever been obstructed by, pearly or otherwise. I ring the bell and magically they swing open, displaying a porch of greatness, wide stone steps and a front door of heaven, or possibly oak. I knock on the door and the help opens it. Now let's be clear here, 'the help' has many negatitive connotations, but here this woman is treated as an equal; vital, indispensable and treasured, so let's give her the full beauty of that phrase. She makes me a sandwich which I eat gratefully with cold fingers and an empty stomach. I wait in the 'day room' and she tells me to curl up on a couch the cost of a large car, to make myself at home. A big floppy dog comes in and I play with it. All this time I want to be cynical. Truly I do. How can people deserve to be this rich? How dare they have this much wealth? But when I am greeted by the owners, a couple with pure love, pure grace pouring out like cheap red wine on beige carpet, I am humbled by their humility. They sit with me for three hours, talking, making sure I am ok, telling me it will be ok. I cry a bit. And after three hours it is ok. A bit. I have hope, a small pilot light of hope. These people who could financially give me anything I could ever ask for have given me something so much more priceless, the ability to wake up again tomorrow and carry on.