Crying shame

At 2pm, I took the large bag of art supplies and waited outside my office. The weather had arrived, rain slanting across Strand Street and car tyres fizzing in the wet. Ten minutes passed. I scanned the pavements, looking for Shiree’s green beanie. Bundled up, their faces obscured by raincoats and hats, everyone looked homeless. I kept checking my watch: 2.17, 2.22, 2.24. After half-an-hour, I picked up the bag and went back to the office.

Shiree has three days in which to enter the portrait competition. I know she sleeps on the Grand Parade and showers every day at the Long Street Baths. As random as that it is, I will try to find her. Failing which, I will keep the bag in my car in the hope I will bump into her again. She had told me art was her passion. It didn’t matter that she slept outside or went hungry, “as long as I can draw… “

And if I don’t find Shiree, I will refund my friends, pay back the discount and take up life-drawing lessons. This is something the world doesn’t need. I DON’T have children but I have two teenage nieces with whom I spend a lot of time. We laugh and make silly videos and sing in the car.

In my eyes, they’re still the little kids I taught to swim. However, in the eyes of others, they are something else and I now understand all those jokes about protective parents buying shotguns to ward off grubby little suitors.

We went shopping on Saturday and I became aware of the looks the girls were receiving. However, the leering wasn’t done by boys their age, but by grey-haired men with boeps who cast lingering, stomach-churning glances in their direction.

Have they no shame? My oldest is niece is 14. FOURTEEN! Go and get a life. Or watch some rugby on the telly. Or a Kardashian series. Or some Playboy Mansion programme.

Just leave young girls out of your filthy little fantasies.