People don't help any more
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. . . . It could be any suburb near the city. Bird droppings smear footpaths already stained with spilt food and drink and spit. Discarded papers and cigarette butts swirl in the gutter. Amid all this, a frail, elderly woman, well dressed with a big floppy hat, edges a shopping trolley loaded with groceries painfully slowly along the path, battling the wind and a body sapped of strength. It's awful to watch. A couple of high school kids accidentally bump the trolley and snigger. A trade (tradesman) leaning against a wall gnawing on a kebab catches my eye and looks away. I'm walking two dogs who are straining at the leash, intoxicated with the smells on the ground and in the air. No one is willing to help the woman. And so for the next 20 minutes she grabs my offered arm and we inch our way to a cab rank two intersections away, wrestling with the trolley, the dogs and dozens of passers-by who couldn't give a toss. At one stage a taxi rolls by. I plead with the driver, ...