The other night I was walking up one of the back streets. I heard shouting and sounds of distress.
Not my business. Not mine to interfere in a ‘domestic’ dispute.
I walked on.
And battled with my conscience. How would I feel if someone walked on? I walked back.
The man was walking away. That was a good start.
The woman was halfway up some steps leading to the next level of streets. We have a lot of steps in Gibraltar.
‘Do you need any help? Are you OK?’
‘Yes please. I’m not really OK.’
Could have been worse. She wasn’t bleeding or bruised.
A domestic spat? Whatever, she was in no fit condition (alcohol) to get home alone with shopping bags.
So Ms Roughseas Who Really Still Can’t Walk Properly and Struggles With Steps climbed up to help. Somehow I took her shopping bags, gave her an arm, and we clambered up the remaining steps together.
Then we lurched up the street to her home.
‘Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? Why are you my Guardian Angel?’
Many of us have been there. For whatever reason. Too much to drink, and … well … the world is not easily negotiable.
I took her into her block, she couldn’t find her flat keys so I looked in her bag for them, opened up the flat, put her bags down, suggested she go to bed (she wanted to go out again!), introduced myself and left.
Partner was a bit worried when I returned home, I’d been out longer than normal. ‘I met this woman who needed help.’
‘Oh yeah, I know her. Really intelligent. Got a good job. Needs to chill out by drinking. Lives with an arsehole.’
Well there you go. I meet a random stranger and Partner knows all about her!
I’ve not seen her since. Would I do it again? Of course. Would I wait for the man to piss off? Advisable.
Mario Lanza. Guardian Angels fell a bit short for him: