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I have my own personal hobo.
Bloomsbury Square at its finest, majestic trees, a bench, and there he's entrenched.
Every day I cross the square at a light jog, battle the calories and throw one pound into the box.
Rags hang on him frail and pale, he is always composed in the pose of a snail and only a black tuft of hair proves that this is a human being.
And today it's my birthday, so I invite him to breakfast.
He straightens his pants and swears to himself.
His feet are bare.
At first he hesitates.
Then, energetic, he rises briskly, ties the rags that once were clothes in a rope that becomes a belt.
Carefully he folds the scrap that is now a bed, empties the box of a pound and ten pence and follows me.
I am generous today.
" Thou may order whatever thy fancies!," I say, festively.
"Eat whatever you feel like eating," I translate.
He exposes a smile that one might see on American tooth paste commercials.
"I have a PHD in philosophy," he declares in a BBC English, and I turn blue.
"Yes," he says, "this is out of choice."
Still I am speechless and he adds and chuckles, "Not bad, huh?"
We both sigh.
It's my birthday today.
We sit at the center, all the diners are curious.
He wants granola.
"There is no method to the madness," I declare and order pancakes dipped in maple syrup.
"It's a sort of principle for me," he says.
"I only share my profits with friends or acquaintances," he states.
"Profits?" I ask.
"Profits," he replies.
"I have a modest house in Mayfair," he adds.
" Mayfair?" I ask.
" Bond Street Mayfair," he emphasizes.
"A house made of paper or carton?" I ask, dropping my voice by half a tone so as not to impose on his privacy.
"Prejudice," he accuses.
"And the clothing?" I inquire.
"I am wrapped in badly-sewn splendor," he declares in all earnestness.
"All that's missing is the cloak," I offer.
"Yes," he agrees, "maybe at the end of the season."
"Why flirt with humiliation?" I rebel.
"It's a matter of rejection," he interprets.
"Rejection?" I wonder.
"A full-time job is a curse," he clarifies.
We both sigh.
"I have a pretty well-developed idleness," I reveal.
"I have a natural gift for it," he chuckles.
"Idleness is like a kiss, said Jerome Jerome" he laughs and rises.
"Many thanks!" He says.
"Maybe some cake?" I offer.
"The time is up. I have to get back to the bench," he grunts, sighs, tut-tuts and disappears.
Few words About the writer:
Dorit Kedar is the modern wandering Jew. She travels around the world, looking for inspirational places to write.
Kedar's first book, "Lilith: the Jewish Demoness - 1000 Years of Borderline Personality" is a friendly non-fiction book which tells the missing chapter of the infamous demoness Lilith. The book was published successfully in Hebrew as paper book and self-published in Kindle and Amazon.
Currently, Kedar is working on her third book "Komish - A Fake Biography of a Real Woman" a story about a young woman that lived in the 5thcentury.