I’ll be giving you a break from my weekly scribble after this column, but first I must tell you about the most lovely and unexpected experience I had this week, one that would not have happened if I wasn’t living Slowly.
Last Tuesday, at about 5pm, when in my previous life I would have been heading into yet another meeting with no foreseeable point or end, a text arrived from my neighbour and new friend (now that I have time to chat to the neighbours, they are indeed becoming my friends): “Please can you help. Stranger making odd noises at door. Won’t go away.”
This neighbour has a four-week-old baby, and a stranger at the door is not good news. I left my eight-month-old with his daddy (he works a four-day-week now that we’ve shifted our work-life balance) and headed over.
There was indeed a strange man at the door. A pre-Slow me would have been inclined to adopt a big city survival mode and with a toughened demeanour strongly suggested that the man move on. But it’s different now. I have more time for people, I seem to feel less threatened by strangers, and warmer to people, especially to those in my neighbourhood. I’m not surprised that I get a more friendly response in exchange.
It didn’t take too long to work out that this gentleman was elderly and quite confused. Convinced he had seen his daughter’s car parked up, he was hammering on the nearest door certain his daughter and grandchildren inside. He was very distressed to think they were refusing him entry.
He was immaculately dressed. Pristine, sharp, dapper. He wore a neatly pressed sky blue shirt, a tweed suit with a matching blue handkerchief in the top pocket, fresh boots and a brown felt trilby. His skin was dark black and gently lined, his hair grey, and his beautiful eyes cloudy with cataracts. His name, he eventually told me, was Mr Ivan Dacosta.
I beckoned Mr Dacosta to join me in sitting on a nearby wall while I pieced together bits of information to work out where he had come from and how I might get him home. Between us, both a bit confused by this point, we tracked down a son, in Brixton. Astonishingly I found him on the internet and was able to call him. “Thank you,” he said, in shock. “I will come to get him straight away.”
And, so, elegant Mr Ivan Dacosta, ten minutes earlier a strange man making frightening noises, came into my home for a cup of tea. Through his confusion he told me a little about his life. Two granddaughters, a son with his own business, a dearly parted wife, a home he doesn’t live in any longer, and, proudly, a life time working with the BBC. He smiled gloriously at my baby son, who trustingly smiled back.
Meeting Mr Dacosta was the highlight of my week. What made it especially joyous was that this experience would not, and could not, have happened before I began to live Slowly. I wasn’t around to help, or if I was around I wouldn’t have time. I wouldn’t have been called upon by the neighbours because I wouldn’t have known them. And sadly, in my rush, I’m not sure I would have noticed Mr Dacosta in the doorway, never mind invited him into my home.
It turned out that Mr Dacosta was 93. He has Alzheimers, and he needed a stranger’s help that day. I’m just glad I was around to give it. Live Slow, people. It feels good.
