It Pays To Pay It Forward

The evening of the Friday just gone was rather an unusual one for me. So much so, that I decided to blog about it.

What you’re (hopefully) about to read is by no means a very harrowing, gripping or awe-inspiring story by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s one that got me thinking about how random acts of kindness can sometimes do a lot more for us than we think.

It’s certainly not the most side-splitting of tales ever written, but I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and, indeed, living it.

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As I departed through the shiny glass doors of the corporate-come-creative haven that is RBM, my tired but happy mind buzzing with thoughts of a new job, new colleagues and new challenges suddenly became overridden by one single desire: to go home – and as quickly as possible.

As wonderful as my first week had been, I was overwhelmed by the exhaustion accumulated by only five days worth of commuting, and longed for nothing more than a steaming hot cup of tea and an unmade bed to collapse upon.

But alas, my desires were to be delayed as I still had a long evening of birthday celebrations ahead of me. Reluctantly, I headed towards the city centre where a sequence of rather unusual events was about to unfold.

*

As my intelligent albeit ditsy self would have it, I got off one tube stop early from where I was meant to be going – something which (I am ashamed to admit) has happened to me on an abnormal number of occasions. Redeeming myself from this fleeting moment of stupidity, I emerged from Oxford Circus’ underground station and spotted a rather distressed-looking young lady crying and spluttering uncontrollably into her mobile phone. With my Londoner’s It’s-Probably-Just-Some-Crazy-Physcho-I-Don’t-Have-Time-For hat on, I charged passed with my white earphones blaring and an entirely unfounded air of superiority.

About 5 yards ahead, however, something made me stop dead in my tracks. What if that girl had’ve been me? Attracting even the attention of a confused, irritated and (luckily) un-ill-intentioned passer-by, I found myself pressing the stop button on my media player, hovering for one or two seconds of indecision, and then retreating fervently in the opposite direction. I had no idea what had just hit me. It may have been guilt; it may have been sympathy, but all I knew was that I couldn’t shake the image of that lonely DID. As I marched towards her in the throng of tube-emerging crowds all rushing hurriedly in the opposite direction, I tentatively approached the crying lady, absorbed in the low-battery device she held in her hand.

“Excuse me, are you ok?” I asked, praying that the possibly rude return would have at least been in a language I understood.

Her glistening, worried eyes shot up.

“ No..” she replied – thankfully in English and in a West London accent. She returned to her phone, sniffling once more.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I persisted, slightly worried where this chance encounter would lead me.

“No..not really. I don’t know how to help me. It’s just all so messed up.. My family, my fiancé.. It’s all gone so wrong and I don’t know how to deal with it. I’m just not strong enough..” She blurted out, seemingly surprised by her own response and descending into another splutter.

“Oh, right. Ok..” I regrettably replied, completely unsure what to say or even how to comfort a complete stranger. “Erm, I promise I don’t usually do this.. But would it help if we went to get a coffee maybe..? You know, or tea..? If that’d make you feel better?” I continued, knowing that’d either I’d just severely compromised my security or made a complete and utter t*t of myself.

The response was most unexpected.

Without saying a word, she lengthened her arms towards me and hugged me – a weak sort of I-don’t-know-you-are-but-I’m-really-glad-you’re-here kind of hug.

As we turned to walk towards a hot beverage locale – me, slightly bewildered at my own actions, and her, ever upset but also strangely calmer at the thought of caffeine-fuelled salvation – it hit me that I had just approached an upset stranger, invited them out (or in) for a coffee and all whilst I had a birthday party to go to. Luckily, I had neared my destination almost an hour beforehand, so I had time to kill before moving on to more gleeful happenings.

However, I knew not all that deep down that this encounter wouldn’t have been a mere forty minute stint; it was more likely that the cheering-up of an individual whose ‘happy buttons’ were located in an altogether unknown place would take a significantly lengthier amount of time to engage. But somehow, this niggling feeling didn’t bother me. I knew that my friend would have been surrounded by groups of people who knew and adored her; the person who I was with seemed desperate for if only one of the above.

Upon reaching our destination, we bought and collected our comfort-filled paper cups and settled down in an un-crowded area of the café. The conversation was surprisingly unstilted. Divulging the depths of your misery to a complete stranger would, you would think, be a rather uncomfortable and almost invasive affair. But not to the young girl who sat before me. Taking on the role of a counterfeit all-knowing sage, I listened to her woes and offered comfort in the best way I could: a sympathetic stare interspersed with the odd nod, look of shear shock and the old arm rub at the most poignantly appropriate times.

The level of trust she imparted me with was rather surprising, and all delicately dealt with, I thought. She took the time and care to explain how she felt in relation to all significant heart-breaking events past and present, and flagged-up her appreciation of my listening ear throughout. By the end of our conversation – which was surprisingly only one hour on – we had shared both of our woes, both of our freakishly similar backgrounds, and both of our desire to be stronger, better people.

Conscious that I had elsewhere to be, the now smiling lady left me with a further – this time lengthier – embrace, and I went on my way, leaving her with my number, a book in hand and a late arrival of a friend (and me with two missed calls and a heaven-sent geo-location tool).

*

Fifteen minutes and 3 wrong turns later, I arrived breathless at my original destination with a long table of pizza-mouthed people, a baffled but contented host, and a very very unlikely story for my unexplained tardiness. Having (slowly but surely) regained my composure and switched into successful-young-professional-networking-guru mode, I engaged in polite conversation with those seated next to me about work, education and failed systems of public governance.

As much as I’d like to say my evening of do-good’ing had ended there, the full moon’s call and mischievous Gods of RAS (Random Acts of Selflessness) were not done with me yet. As we’d finished our main courses, we approached the typically most desired of all courses: dessert.

As any girl – and, indeed, any person – celebrating their birthday in the form of a civilised evening of dinner with friends knows, the dessert is the pinnacle of any birthday celebration; it’s the time when either you the host organises the formal presentation of the much sought-after birthday cake, or when you, the birthday boy or girl (but not organiser), feigns simultaneous surprise, embarrassment and pure delight at the unveiling of a candle-lit cake.

However, much to my surprise, neither of these scenarios were the case for my friend, the host. Disappointed at everyone’s lack of enthusiasm for dessert – and even more disappointed that the host was begrudgingly forced to decline a slice of her best loved sweet as the sight of everyone’s keenness to vacate and move on, I felt empowered by the positive let’s-make-the-world-a-better-place attitude that seemed to be theme for that fateful Friday evening, and took it upon myself to make this birthday disaster right.

I descended downstairs to the ground floor where the waiters were too’ing and fro’ing between customers, kitchens and tills, and catching the eye of one of them, I made my no doubt unoriginal request:

“Hi there, is there any way I could get a slice of tiramisu with a candle on it, please?” I enquired, expecting the answer to be a straight-forward “yep”, “sure” or “no problem”.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have any candles left.”

Taking a second to process this bit of bad news, I regrouped and determinedly pressed on:

“Oh, ok. Do you know where I could find one?”

“You could try Tesco Express. It’s just down the road.”

“Right,” I replied, realising that I had absolutely no desire to go on a wild candle-hunting goose chase.

Before I had the time to change my albeit undecided mind, I grabbed my purse and set off into the night.

Sure enough, Tesco Express was indeed just down the road and I quickly entered wasting no time in searching, and found a shop assistant to help.

“Hi! Do you sell candles at all?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“But Waitrose might..”

“Right,” I repeated, feeling deflated and regretting my decision to go candle searching.

“Where’s that then?”

“Just down the road.”

“Cool, ok. Thanks!” I nodded, found my courage and set off into the night once again.

Five minutes and two side roads later, I found Waitrose. Closed.

I hovered for a few seconds outside the shop desperately trying to catch someone’s eye and preparing some form of convoluted sob-story to persuade an unsuspecting shop assistant to let me in – but to no avail. Time was of the essence and I still had no candle. Or, indeed, patience.

Tearing myself away from the early closing supermarket, I scanned the street ahead of me for any sign of a supermarket, off licence or corner shop. But there was nothing. I stood there for a moment, and seriously considered turning back. But as fate-believers would have it, a faint glimmer of hope appeared:

Strada!

I know what you’re thinking – no way, that’s cheeky, going into another Italian restaurant and asking for a candle – and you’re right, it was. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and it seemed like the only option left.

I left any shame I’d brought me as far as Waitrose, and ran over to Strada, jogged over the road and skipped the long queue of eager couples waiting outside.

“Hi!” I over-enthusiastically cried to a frightened-looking waiter.

“I don’t suppose you have a birthday candle do you? It’s for a friend. It’s her birthday. And I really need one. I’ve been to Tesco’s and Waitrose but they don’t have one. Do you have one? Please?”

The waiter smiled, looking relived that I wasn’t about to complain about the low level of service or quiz him as to the exact ingredients of a spaghetti carbonara, and headed for the all-keeping till.

“Oh, yeah sure! I think so..” He opened a drawer, and with it, my restored faith in humanity.

He produced a crooked white candle.

Never in history has a crooked white candle produced such relief, happiness and gratitude on the face of an out of breathe and relatively delirious-looking individual.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much, that’s perfect!”

Without a moment’s haste, I grabbed the candle and ran back as fast as my impractical sandals which were barely made for walking allowed.

At this point, I had no concept of how much time had passed and I began to worry that the birthday girl and her friends may have already moved on. But luckily enough, I found them right where I’d left them.

I brought the candle to waiter who’d witnessed my bizarre escapades right from the start, and produced a large slice of tiramisu, ready to be brought up to the birthday girl.

Needless to say, the one slice of make-shift birthday cake went down a treat – and so did the candle.

When I revealed to my friend at the end of the evening my little supermarket hopping trip, she was most grateful for my efforts and assured me her candle would be kept in a safe place in her trinket box for years to come.

*

The evening was finally over.

I arrived home two hours later happy, satisfied and absolutely shattered.

Skipping the cup of tea I’d so longed for now over five hours ago, I headed straight to bed and drifted off to sleep with no thoughts of work whatsoever.

Instead, the self-centred ponderings I usually end my days with were replaced by the smiling faces of the strangers I’d helped, the friends I’d reconnected with, and the sweet, selfless and serendipitous reward of paying it forward.

[Image credit: Andy's 2 Cents]

Tags: Amusing stories, Carpe diem, Paying it forward, Random acts of kindness, Selflessness