Hobo-man

I recently came across a ‘gentleman of the road’, sitting in a shop doorway, and drinking from a can of Kestrel at just past nine in the morning. 

“Ha ha ha I’m not being very p.c!” the hobo-man said, brandishing his can by way of a toast. 

I continued on my way, pretending not to hear him. Of course, I reflected - as I hurried towards the sanctity of M&S and all the comfort and security of the middle-class shopping experience - getting pissed at 9 o’clock in the morning outside the Iceland on Sidwell Street, Exeter, has absolutely nothing to do with political correctness. Nor is it an effective means of ‘challenging’ the establishment. He is merely playing up to the stereotype that all tramps get wankered at unseemly hours of the day. He was not formulating a conspiracy to bring down the Murdoch empire, or concocting ways to undermine David Cameron. 

I glanced back towards hobo-man, who was now engaged in a wordless discussion with Iceland’s resident security guard, staring blearily up at him and waving his Kestrel can. He was the perfect incarnation of the recurring nightmare I’ve had since grammar school - the nightmare of failing, and ending up like hobo-man. His choice to be ‘politically incorrect’, by indulging in the vaguely risky fun of drinking cheap lager when most people are at work, chimed very well with the habits and lifestyle of student-hood that I have officially chosen to leave behind. No longer is it acceptable to devote an entire day to drinking - not that I ever have; my old-woman tendencies extend to my liver also. Going out will be confined to Friday and Saturday night, once regular employment occurs. I am no longer privy to the accepted norm that all students are allowed to sit around in their pyjamas all day, spooning Sugar Puffs into their mouths and watching Friends re-runs. 

I am now entering a phase of life where less gravity is placed upon the type of underwear I chose to put on each morning, largely because I believe I have reached a point in life where I am more comfortable in my own skin than I have ever been. And my own skin says miniscule g-strings are not a good idea. Men are becoming blessedly forgiving creatures, so really you could get away with wearing a Gregg’s paper bag with leg-holes torn in it, and it wouldn’t put them off. The demented level of self-preparation that you undergo before each outing to Arena is beginning to wear off, and is being replaced by a violent feeling needing to come across as ‘serious’ and ‘capable’ in the workplace. My hair has emerged from its ‘wilderness years’ - I wore my graduation cap without hair-related tragedy. I do not feel the need to EVER WEAR FALSE EYELASHES EVER AGAIN (largely because the first and only time I tried them, I glued my eyes shut). 

Having just lived through my last week as a student - and the closest I ever want to be to hobo-man’s lifestyle - I’m very frightened at the prospect of having no clear-cut ‘plan’ for the future for the first time ever. Luckily, I’ve moved on from my childhood conviction that I was destined to be a princess. A goddess. An air hostess. But I have managed to create a more concrete form of who I think I am as a person, and this includes my complete intolerance towards dirt, and an unhealthy Facebook obsession. Now the real world looks very frightening, but in another ten years, when my eons of chocolate abuse have caught up with me, and I weigh 20 stone, I bet I’ll be longing for the uncertainty of today once again. I will be craving to be ‘politically incorrect’ and keep up my enthusiasm for cocktails at any time of day. We’ll all be longing for that infamous duvet day. 

Congratulations Class of 2011; here’s to the mini hobo-man in all our student-selves...and here’s to the road to adult responsibility!