Once upon an indeterminate time, there grew a secret garden. This was one of those forgotten corners that one only chances upon unwittingly, the sort that thrive unencumbered by the meddling presence of man.

And what a glorious garden it was today. After a long bout of agonising  winter, spring had finally sprung! Every flower, every leaf, bumblebee - each threatening to burst into a song of bountiful joy. All but for a lonely dandelion.

Thinking itself unsightly, the dandelion was not really so. Far from it, it had a sprightly viridian stalk, the end of  which grew a fuzzy ball of snowy white bristles.

But that was of no comfort to the poor flower. It had not, the radiant disposition of a sunflower, or the tinkering charm of bluebells. Most of all, it was not a rose. Oh what it would give to be a rose! Peel after peel of pillowy, plump petals, exploding into a shade of deep scarlet. Oh, to be the king of the garden, and not a mere thistle!

“Why would anybody want to blow on me now?”

And thus the dandelion stirred from its wandering imagination. He never felt uglier or more undesirable.

On this cold winter’s morning, the street stirs with the zooming of cars, the pitter-patter of dogs and the treading of their masters’ feet. The whizzing of the java machine coming from the coffee shop proves too irresistible, and lures the sleepyheads from their beds. Shop-owners sluggishly open their roller shutters as the whole town awakes. Amid the noise and hullabaloo, Madam Babushka cuts a lonesome, quiet figure.

A faded printed scarf is wrapped around her head, covering most of her hair although what little can be seen of it, is a wizened salt and pepper colour. A lumpy and heavily-pilled sweater seems to be the only thing protecting her hunched little body from the chilling winds. Beside her, a sort of collapsible contraption with wheels. This helps with walking, one would presume that she probably has wobbly knees. She is seated on a little raised edge, huddled. She watches.

Just as a couple of young men seem to be passing her by, Madam Babushka reaches out a hand and gently motions them to her. Stopped at their tracks, the men proceed towards the gray lady as she begins to plead. “Bus ticket” she goes. “Bus ticket” she goes again, in an Eastern European accent. The men pay full attention to her as she speaks, trying to make sense of what little English she can muster. “No money go home” the woman implores finally when fat little tears start streaming down her deeply etched face.

Having understood her predicament now, one of the men reaches into his pocket to pull out his money-clip. Alas, it is empty, he would not be of much use to this poor soul. But all is not lost! He sees his metro card, with a couple more rides remaining on it. This ought to help, he thinks to himself as he hands it over. A good deed done, the duo walks away.

The men now a good distance away and with their backs towards her, Madam Babushka takes a gander at the card that she had just been so benevolently offered. Her face, helpless and pathetic mere moments ago, now scrunches to one of annoyance as she swiftly lifts herself up from her perch.

“Fuckwits,” she thinks to herself, as she flicks the metro pass away. Now she’ll have to look for victims elsewhere.