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Soupertramp

Writer's picture: Dave GobleDave Goble

Updated: Jul 2, 2022

I was reminded the other morning, (July 26th), on climbing the steps to exit St. John’s Wood tube station that I had done so once before. About 35 years ago. And, unlike on this occasion which was to watch day three of the test match between England and Ireland with friend John Royle, the reason back then had nothing to do with cricket. 

It was the mid-80s when I visited London Zoo, (for the first and last time). I don’t recall why I didn’t use the tube, but I drove from the flat I was renting in Chiswick, parking on a road nearby. My car at the time was a tired old Ford Escort MkII, which was a little more inviting to the casual car thief than most as it sported an ill-fitting temporary perspex window in the driver’s door (another story).

On leaving the zoo and returning to my car it was nowhere to be found. If you’ve ever had a car stolen you might recognise the symptoms: much pacing up and down, chin stroking and self doubt about where you actually parked.

After 30 minutes or so I gave up, reported the car to the police as stolen, and headed home on public transport. During the journey I reflected on what was in the car that I’d be unlikely to see again. All I could recall were a few Van Morrison and Talking Heads tapes, and a leather football.

About six weeks passed without news, and I was resigned to looking for another car. Then came a call from St. John’s Wood police station late one weekday afternoon. I was at work just beginning an evening shift as a Computer Operator at Hoechst UK in Hounslow. Dress code on evening and night shifts was very casual - I mention this as it informs the tail end of the story. 

My car had been found on a tree-lined street not far from the police station, and I was invited to set off and pick it up. I asked if the police were keeping an eye on it in case the thief was nearby, perhaps having just popped into a shop and likely to drive off again. They said no, but that an open driver's window and a coating of sticky sap over the bonnet and roof suggested abandonment.

I set off on the tube. On reaching St. John’s Wood and clutching my London A-Z, a copy of police directions and my car keys, I began walking in the fading light to where I hoped my car would still be. A few minutes later, as I continued my walk through some rather nice and leafy residential areas, I was taken aback as a large elderly gentleman I can only liken to Robert Morley in appearance, (I don’t think it actually was him), stopped me as we passed each other on the pavement, and pointing down the road said “You will find it down there, just around the corner”. 

I had to pause and take a breath as I considered his advice. What special power was this? How did he know where my car was? Wait. How did he know what I was looking for? Or even that I was looking for anything at all? I said in response “Excuse me?” He elaborated, “The soup kitchen. It’s just around the corner.” and shuffled off.

He obviously meant it in a kindly way. I think in my shock I may even have thanked him. I stood there. A sobering moment. What just happened? What on earth did I look like to cause that? I think I was wearing some faded patched khaki army trousers and a white shirt from an old U.S. “vintage clothing” shop called Flip, and some old boots. I suppose my hair would have been a bit of a mess, (it usually was), and my posture / demeanour may have been less than jaunty. 

I resisted the lure of the soup kitchen and proceeded to find my sticky car precisely where the police said it was, and let them know. My football and Talking Heads tapes had gone; my Van Morrison tapes however were still there, which felt slightly insulting at the time.  I got into the driver’s seat, which also was sticky with sap, presumably via the open window. I drove home, played some Van Morrison and couldn’t help but consider how I might look to try and improve my appearance.

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