2005-05-04 - 6:49 p.m.

The arrival of Spring is heralded by many things. For some, it�s the first beer drunk outside whatever Soho hellhole they go to after work, for others, the grossly inappropriate choice of shorts for work. For me, like the arrival of the first cuckoo, if that cuckoo had only a basic grasp of English, a disability and a need for public displays of rhythm, it�s the appearance of one of my worst nightmares.

The blind, bongo-playing Polish psychologist is back.

Older readers may remember my outright fear of running into buskers I know. I mean, I cannot imagine a more anxiety-rich encounter, public speaking in the nude and appearing at a war crimes tribunal included.

I haven�t seen Arthur for over two years. Long story short � I met him at a party, where he was playing the bongos and being blind, and we got on really well; for instance he let me play with his telescopic white stick.

Then I found out that his busking pitch was right outside the place where I was working for a few weeks, and the first time I saw him, I said hello, though admittedly it took him quite a while to remember who I was. After that I got kind of kind of anxious every time I passed him, and would shout out on my way past (�Hi Arthur � it�s PaulI�mreallylateforthetube�) and then I just kind of stopped altogether.

For starters, I figure that buskers don�t want to be disturbed as it costs them money to talk to you, and secondly, explaining who you are to a blind guy who doesn�t really speak your language in front of staring hordes of people is really painful.

My bypassing him made me even more worried, though. I thought perhaps he could sense that I was walking past without stopping, and that would be even worse. So then I went back to saying hello, and then quickly remembered how embarrassing THAT was, and stopped again and stared walking to work a different, much longer, way. I figured his blind sixth sense was only good for a limited radius.

Then I moved offices, and the situation went away (although I did start running into another � sighted � busker I knew, which brought its own specific problems). Now I have moved back to that first office, and I had forgotten all about him. Until the other day. I heard them before I even turned the corner.

So now I don�t know whether saying hello will totally freak him out as he will really have no idea who I am, even despite tales of how I played with his stick once, but then maybe his sixth sense has a good memory and he can sense me walking past and will grow a hatred that can only be satisfied by physical injury, possibly involving his stick and the bongos. But I really can�t start taking that diversion again.

Ah, Spring. When a young man�s fancy turns to avoidance of receiving a severe physical discourtesy from a disabled immigrant percussionist.