One of the best and worst things about being a cripple is that I get stuff for free. That is, people give me stuff and refuse to take my money. It’s silly.

This morning, for example, I was in town and I noticed there was a book sale in the market. Here I cry the lament of the bibliophile: I have more books than I can possibly read, yet I cannot resist buying more. I swear, it’s a form of mania born of philology, or at least an addiction to the smell of glue. Anyway, I noticed some quite good authors on the bench – Balzac, Moliere (whom my aunt mentioned in her comments, if memory serves) – and I selected four or five. As usual, I rolled to the store holder, preparing to pay, but she said I could have them.

I know I should not have accepted them. Normally I refuse to be seen as a charity case. Yet I couldn’t refuse. In her eyes she was just being generous. What is one to do.

The remedy presented itself immediately. In all, these books would have cost a quid. Not very far away, a man was standing in the street selling the Big Issue for that price. I bought it, as, in my mind, it was the right thing to do.

Was it?