Hand-out
I'm walking down the street, on my way to the shop to buy food, when all of a sudden a hand appears in front of me. It's a gnarly, rough-looking hand, with liverspots and dirty, chewed-down nails. It's also holding a five-dollar note. A voice comes down to me from somewhere up high. 'Here you go. Merry Christmas.' I look up. And up. And up a bit more. There's a very tall, skinny bloke standing in front of me, looking ragged and worn-out, dark hair above a lined face, faded blue t-shirt over jeans. In one hand he's holding a fist-full of five-dollar notes, the other one, extended to me, is holding out a fiver, in an earnest plea for me to take the cash and, presumably, run. I look from the five-dollar note up to his face in amazement. 'Why are you trying to give me money?' I ask, baffled, and seriously curious. He scowls and looks perturbed. 'Because it keeps me from sitting around the house feeling depres...