Last week I was traipsing home alone on the Tube, and a well-dressed, well-fed, middle-aged lady got on and sat opposite me. After a few minutes I realised that something was dripping from her long black coat. A river of blackcurrant-coloured fluid was racing towards the carriage door. Her head was bowed and she was vomiting into her silk wrap. I could see in her eyes that she was deeply ashamed, yet unable to stop the flow, and I felt so sorry for her. I wanted to help her, but I was powerless - I had nothing to offer her: no water, no tissues, nothing. The smell became overpowering, and I had 20 minutes left to travel on that train... so I moved seats. Later, a man spoke to her to ask if she was ok, and he comforted her and gave her his scarf. He stayed with her, his hand resting on her back, all the way to Stockwell. Words cannot express the mixture of emotions I felt watching that scene unfold. I felt so guilty and so ashamed because I hadn't even asked if I could help. I'd been quick to judge her as a drunk who deserved what was coming to her, while partly realising how hypocritical that was, coming from me. And that man... I wanted to embrace him because he had something - a goodness - that I wanted a piece of... Jesus-like... If only I'd said something, anything... something to let her know she was loved. I had something to offer her and I chose not to give it. It is still haunting me. What am I becoming?
