THREE COINS IN THE FOUNTAIN

After the Council of Faiths meeting is over this evening, I lock up and leave Pilgrim House then take a little stroll around Town Hall Square. The fountain looks very pretty in the late evening light and I take a few pictures. Walking round the fountain, I spot a young chap splashing about in the water, clad only in a pair of big shorts - his shirt, socks and trainers laid out beside the low railing. He's casting about in the pool (which appears surprisingly deep). What's he doing there? Is he having a paddle? It's a warm and balmy evening - but not that warm and balmy.

I go up to him and ask if he's taking money out of the fountain. Not in an accusatory way or anything. You can ask just about anything in a Glaswegian accent and make it either threatening or pally: it's a fine line.

He tells me he that is, because he's starving and he has to get money from somewhere to buy some food. He then asks me where I'm from (see, faithful reader, the accent thing works). When I tell him that I must have thrown a fiver's worth into that fountain, he asks me if I mean just today. What becomes of the coins that folk throw into the fountain when they make a wish? Can there be any better use of them than they should help feed someone who can't buy his own food? What's the world coming to when young, able bodied men have to resort to this sort of thing, just to get enough money to buy something to eat?

I tell the lad that I admire his ingenuity and give him some change.