This afternoon I was wandering through the city centre when my mate the Wonderwall busker cycled past.
I always keep a pound or two in my pocket to hand off – buskers are my most expensive habit in this massively expensive town – but just as I was about to nod hello he was stopped by two policemen stepping out in his path.
They blocked his way and proceeded to berate him. I stood on the sidewalk watching, in an openly appalled fashion, but my presence was ignored. I am, after all, just another displaced foreigner. I know too little about the culture of this place, let alone the class war implied by the fact that this guy, with his broken teeth and dirty clothes, cover songs and caustic comments, is the only busker ever busted. For what great crime? Singing in public.
While Iain (husband of Karen, frequent guest at my holiday suppers, middle class music teacher) plays out with his band whenever he likes. Or how about the guy with the violin? Or the one with the accordion? Or how many other examples of people who are scrubbed and wholesome but like to play music on the sidewalk?
Nobody else was paying attention to the whimsically helmeted officers harassing the homeless guy, except my son, who stood next to me similarly appalled. Once I ascertained that it was simple harassment there seemed no choice but to move on, worrying by then that my mate would be embarrassed to know I witnessed the exchange.
Just another day in Cambridge, the least likely place I could have chosen to live (three years, ten months, and counting).