Postcard from Paris - beggars

‘Don’t talk to me about the French social model, the whole country’s in flames’. – Lord Mandleson.

They stand or kneel, or a combination of the two, twisted like a pretzel. Often with crutches, the collection cup a tin can, beaten on the pavement in a tattoo not to draw attention, like an echo of a church bell appealing for Christian charity, but because of some disability wracking their frame into a shuddering judder of limbs and fingers. It would seem impossible to ignore the beggars of Paris, to pass them by without some sort of expression of pity, an expression that sends some cents clattering into their cup (an empty cat food can, the chap I passed) but they are ignored by the Parisians.

I consider myself to be pretty adept at ignoring beggars. Living in London you quickly develop either my own trademark apologetic shrug and half smile (‘I would like to help you but, despite appearances, I am inexplicably devoid of change’) or a keen interest in the architecture of rooftops, guttering, pavements and manhole covers.

But ignoring a prostrate wretch? That’s just not on. I tossed in my coin and wished him ‘bon chance’.

Parisians are very good at ignoring things. Over the last couple of days I have developed the theory that they simply ignored the entire German occupation, which is probably why they get so tetchy when I asked a waiter if his grandfather served nazi officers in this very café during the war.