Two pairs of legs

It was just a quick trip to Aldi for a sandwich on my way to work. I noticed two pairs of legs protruding from a dirty orange blanket on the floor as I approached. It's a cold night to have slept outside, I thought to myself. Staff members from Aldi and the neighbouring newsagents exchanged silent glances as I passed. There was more to this story.

"Are they still alive?" I asked the Aldi man as I entered the shop. "I heard coughing before," he responded. "Not sure what we can do...". "I think the council have a number." I offered, "I'll Google while I shop".

I completed the online form for reporting concern for a homeless person while debating the choice of hoisin duck or chicken salad. It was an uncomfortable juxtaposition.

On my way out, I noticed the blanket was moving. The owner of one of the pairs of legs revealed himself, unsteady on his feet and grimacing in a way that suggested trouble seeing straight. He spoke to the blanket unintelligably. No response. "Does he need help?" I asked, and immediately questioned whether he was best placed to make such a judgement. Fluid fell from his nose and hung in a way that appeared to defy gravity. For a moment I was reminded of the beauty of a spider's web decorated by the glistening morning dew. Snap out of it, Gemma. He attempted to resolve the issue by snorting and wiping his nose on his sleeve simultaneously. Neither strategy was particularly efficient. He muttered something in my direction without looking up. I assumed from his manner that the meaning would be closer to "fuck off" than a gracious acceptance of my offer of assistance. He continued his attempts to rouse his friend, pulling off the blanket to reveal his unconscious state. It was at some point between his unsuccessful attempts to sit him up and his equally unsuccessful kicks to his legs that I decided assistance would be required. This was an objectionable course of action according to the man, who muttered further in my general direction before stumbling off.

The ambulance took a while to arrive. I find myself apologising to the control room operative for calling, as I suspect that they received a number of calls of this nature. Spice, I assume. She reassures me that I'm doing the right thing. As I speak to her, the man brings himself to a half standing position. He falls, rolls and regains his half standing position in a way that would be comical in another context. I'm not laughing. He settles into a low bow, propped up by one hand on a short bollard, apparently catatonic. He seems totally lost in his own head, which is centimetres from the cold ground. I imagine most yoga instructors would struggle to maintain that pose. I mull over possible names for it and settle on "the ostrich".

As the sirens approach, he stands and I see his face for the first time. He's younger than I thought and I find this surprisingly depressing. "I'm not causing trouble for you." I say, apologetically. "I just want to make sure you're ok." He's going to leave me to explain to the paramedics, I think and sure enough, he moves away, dancing to a syncopated tune that only he can hear.

"I'm sorry." I say to the paramedics as I point out the man in question, acutely aware that I'm apologising for someone being alive. "I mean, I'm glad he's not dead or dying but I'm sorry..." I say in response to their jaded expressions. Nice one, Gemma. That clears that one up.

It's not even 9.30 and I'm already in an existential funk.