“Let’s do something different for Christmas Day” I suggested to the new current Mrs W – the delightfully scatter-brained Lady Helen – as the beer flowed and the brain cells wilted in unison, trying hard to appear a “good catch”.
Still clearly in shock from being sat in the White Swan in the heart of Idle village – a pub you only go to recover stolen goods or buy drugs – Lady H was clearly up for anything better than this.
Obviously, I needed to brush up on my ideal venues for early dates, although one might consider this an early character test. She sat back, demolished her pint, let out a little burp and awaited my suggestion.
My suggestion, accepted so quickly it was clear that she was in shock at any notion of forward planning/commitment was to spend Christmas Day helping my mate Chris, who manages the St George’s Crypt for the homeless in Leeds.
Those cynics of you out there thinking I was simply sussing the place out for a future residency should hang heads in shame!
This is no exercise in seeking a feel good factor, just a reality that places like the crypt, invaluable to a part of society most of us never see, rely on people to wash dishes, chop veg and simply dish out a warm meal.
The crypt also relies on a regular flow of food – largely from the major retailers – and clothing. They go through over 180,000 cups of coffee a year which is incredible in itself.
In short, it is an experience I would recommend to anyone with a few hours to spare and clearly I qualify quite easily on that part.
We arrived on cue at 10a.m. only to find the first of many issues Chris and his staff deal with in any normal day.
A woman, probably around my age but who would definitely drink me under the table and bust me to bits in a fight, was demanding she have some attention from God or anybody else present; this I was definitely not up for.
As she was not on the official guest list for lunch she started to kick off. Proving my patent unsuitability to this kind of work, when she demanded an “exorcism” I asked Chris if he had suggested a few burpees and a lap around the Town Hall.
As ever Chris defused the situation without further need for my non-PC counselling skills.
Inside we met our fellow volunteers for the day, a mix of young and old and some fascinating people doing nothing more than giving up a few hours.
Chris handed out badges with mine saying “Willy” but more worryingly Lady H now known as “Mrs Willy”; she seemed far too happy at this dreadful title as I shuddered on the spot and considered Australia as a safe haven.
One guy had just come back from a six-month stint as a Territorial Army volunteer in Afghanistan in the medical corps; there was nothing he was going to witness today that would bat an eyelid – even an exorcism.
A short conversation with him proved we know so little of what Cameron foolishly and tritely called “mission accomplished” the other week almost wiping from memory over 400 dead and thousands of lives devastated in search of a media pleasing sound-bite.
Highlight of the day though was peeling sprouts with four knife wielding women all in their fifties and all with differing views on the subject of men.
I was outnumbered by a combination of Thelma meets Louise again – the slasher movie – and loose women loose with bread knives.
I can only conclude from the conversation that we men are of very little use to women the older we get. Once they have learnt to change a plug and stare down the local Kwik-Fit guy should he even try to rip them off, a man’s allure seems to fade.
One woman was bucking the trend by planning to re-marry after the end of her first marriage, which had lasted some twenty-five years but the other three had clearly concluded we are generally useless the older we get.
There was little I could offer to contest the theory – as knives wafted the air furiously – and I can’t even change a plug. Sprouts were being slashed furiously and without pity; could we men really be that bad?
And then one of them summed it all up; how could two people hope to stay together for the long haul when so much changes at pace within the individual and in life itself these days.
Those that do are rare and one lady had a difficult conversation coming up with her husband who she had concluded was chalk to her cheese.
I never expected sprouts to produce this but hopefully it was hot air as she hardly looked up for upping and off and a year with a rucksack, hairy legs and swatting mosquitos, emulating the novel Eat, Pray and Love.
I suspect, on this day of all days, she wandered off home grateful for the sight of a snoring husband, not a vegetable peeled, empty wine bottle by the armchair; a few hours at the crypt can give you a sense of perspective very quickly.
After this intense discussion the day perked up as Chris showed Lady H and I the original crypt.
A candlelit den, mood music, soft cushions and a lock on the door – the mind wandered – Chris took the hint and vanished but fearing a Godly strike I decided today was a day to stay onside with Him up there as he may have a few strikes spare.
And then they started to come through the doors, people just like you and I, only struggling a bit more with everyday life. Take a breath, you are indeed a lucky man, I thought.
There are thousands of people sleeping rough tonight as we snooze on settees, bellies fattened and Granny farting in the armchair.
Back home, as Lady H consumed a bottle of mulled wine faster than Ribena, I sensed it might be her needing that residency over me so maybe the farm in the Outback might not be needed after all.
Spare a thought for those less fortunate and if you ever want to do a bit more or chuck a few quid to a great cause then let me know through here and I will pass on to Chris and the team.
Merry Christmas from a lucky man.
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