Bicycle Riding Dole Bludger Stopped by Hamilton City's Finest.

The clients, as they are known, of WINZ Hamilton East were treated to a random act of state-sponsored street theatre last week, courtesy of Hamilton City's Finest.  It could have gone unnoticed but the reception area was so full, the automatic doors wouldn’t close.  Standing room only, it was a beggars banquet minus the banquet, a wearied, burdened audience of 40-50 year olds.  Tired, cynical, dejected.

The collective quiet was broken by the “woop” and honk of a police siren, a patrol car shepherding the offender to the roadside.  It was a young man riding an old bike.  He was unshaven, wearing jandals, torn jeans, t-shirt, leather waistcoat, rasta-beads and a  khaki shoulder bag.  He wore nothing on his head except for an impressive afro, reminiscent of the late great 1970s.

We know about judging books by their covers, about the difference between appearances and realities.   But the audience saw him immediately as one of their own, a man with neither work nor money.  They understood that the price on his un-helmeted head would take out the best part of his week’s money.  Most of them however, didn’t see anything at all.  They were staring into the tough industrial grade carpet under their rough-shod feet, gazing into their own certain futures.