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Diary

Sarah Standing

Wednesday, 28th May 2008

Sarah Standing's diary

I co-own a rather jolly children’s shop on Ebury Street and my stock has recently expanded to include a Romanian tramp. I discovered him sleeping on my doorstep after returning to collect a laptop charger I’d left behind. As it was physically impossible to get into the shop without first crushing him, I found myself in the frankly ludicrous position of waking him up and asking his permission to enter my own premises. After this initial nocturnal ‘lady and the tramp’ encounter our paths have crossed several times. Some mornings when I arrive at work I discover he’s succumbed to a lie-in. I feel strangely awkward waking him up, so tend to go to Starbucks for a coffee. A double espresso for me and a latte-to-go for him. Sometimes, however, a hot drink won’t do. He mimes that he wants feeding and I obligingly trot off and return with a grilled Marmite and cheese sandwich. Last week he was up, dressed and impatiently waiting for me. He told me in broken English that I am a good lady, and that if I give him £5 (presumably) I am an even better one. It takes me little over a week to realise I have succumbed to a rare shopkeeper’s strain of Stockholm Syndrome. The tramp has become the keeper of my gate and I am being held hostage.

Then, with no warning, our relationship took a turn for the worse. Last Wednesday he stormed into the shop when it was heaving with customers and started shouting. I politely asked him to leave. He stood firm. My customers left. I mumbled that I was very busy and had lots to do. He then screamed something in Romanian which I took to mean ‘Like I care.’ At this point my wonderful business partner Diana inexplicably decided the most helpful thing she could do would be to ring my mobile continuously from the other side of the shop. This just meant I had to engage in frantic conversations with imaginary friends. Each time I hung up, the tramp moved closer. We reached an uneasy impasse. I wouldn’t back down, he refused to back off and Diana kept her finger firmly on redial. After a hairy half hour we were both saved by my ex-fiancé of 30 years ago who happened to be walking past on his way to Daylesford Organic. He looked in, sensed we were in trouble and reacted with alacrity. Were I not a happily married woman, I’d have to admit this was the closest I’ve ever come to experiencing a Mr Darcy-Bridget Jones moment. ‘I am this woman’s husband,’ Mr Ex announced with heart-stopping chivalry. ‘Leave my wife alone. You — out. Now. Don’t you dare ever come back. I will call the police if you don’t leave. Go.’ I am relieved to report that his tough love tactics seem to have worked. The tramp has not darkened my doorstep again.

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