The World According to Bob Read Free Page A

really dirty shade of grey. He had loads of other toys, some of which had been given to him by admirers. But ‘scraggedy mouse’, as I called it, was still his number one toy.
    As we sat outside Angel tube he would hold it in his mouth, flicking it from side to side. Sometimes he’d whirl it around by its tail and release it so that it flew a couple of feet away and then pounce on it and start the whole process all over again. Bob loved hunting real life mice, so he was obviously mimicking that. It always stopped people in their tracks and I’d known some commuters to spend ten minutes standing there, as if hypnotised by Bob and his game.
    Out of boredom more than anything else, I had started playing with him on the pavement. To begin with we just played at shaking hands. I’d stretch out my hand and Bob would extend his paw to hold it. We were only replicating what we did at home in my flat, but people seemed to find it sweet. They were constantly stopping to watch us, often taking pictures. If I’d had a pound for every time someone – usually a lady – had stopped and said something like ‘aah, how sweet’ or ‘that’s adorable’ I’d have been rich enough to, well, not have to sit on the pavement any more.
    Freezing your backside off on the streets isn’t exactly the most fun you can have, so my playtimes with Bob became more than simple entertainment for the passing crowds. It helped me to pass the time and to enjoy my days a little more too. I couldn’t deny it: it also helped encourage people to buy copies of the magazine. It was another one of the blessings that Bob had bestowed on me.

    We’d spent so many hours outside Angel by now that we’d begun to develop our act a little further.
    Bob loved his little treats, and I learned that he’d go to extraordinary lengths to get hold of them. So, for instance, if I held a little biscuit three feet or so above him, he’d stand on his hind legs in an effort to snaffle the snack from my hands. He would wrap his paws around my wrist to steady himself, then let go with one paw and try to grab it.
    Predictably, this had gone down a storm. By now there must have been hundreds of people walking the streets of London with images of Bob reaching for the sky on their telephones and cameras.
    Recently, we’d developed this trick even more. The grip he exerted when he grabbed my arms to reach the treat was as strong as a vice. So every now and again I would slowly and very gently raise him in the air so that he was dangling a few inches above the ground.
    He would hang there for a few seconds, until he let go and dropped down or I eased him back to earth. I always made sure he had a soft landing of course and usually put my rucksack under him.
    The more of a ‘show’ we put on, the more people seemed to respond to us, and the more generous they became, not just in buying The Big Issue .
    Since our early days at Angel, people had been incredibly kind, dropping off snacks and nibbles not just for Bob, but for me as well. But they had also started giving us items of clothing, often hand-knitted or sewn by them.
    Bob now had a collection of scarves in all sorts of colours. So many, in fact, that I was running out of space to keep them all. He must have had two dozen or more! He was fast becoming to scarves what Imelda Marcos had been to shoes.
    It was a little overwhelming at times to know that we were on the receiving end of such warmth, support and love. But I never for a moment kidded myself that there weren’t those who felt very differently about us. They were never very far away . . .

    It was approaching the busiest time of the week, the Friday evening rush hour, and the crowds passing in and out of Angel tube were growing thicker by the minute. While I wheeled around the street trying to sell my stack of magazines, Bob was totally oblivious to the commotion, flapping his tail absent-mindedly from side to side as he lay on my rucksack on the pavement.
    It was