Grandad It was summertime. I was walking home after evening football practice when I spotted an elderly gentleman—really quite frail—fallen on the pavement, unable to get up. People were giving him a wide berth, apparently assuming he was drunk, while he muttered to himself and reached out for help. My mum taught me from a young age to help others whenever I can, so I went over and asked, “Do you need a hand?” He couldn’t answer coherently; he just made sounds and kept stretching his arms out towards me. A passing woman scolded me: “Don’t go near him! Can’t you see he’s drunk? You’ll catch something! And he’s filthy, you’ll get yourself dirty!” Looking closer, I saw the man’s hands were covered in blood, and a wave of pure dread washed over me. I asked what had happened, but again only got murmurs in reply; then, with a heavy sigh, he picked up a plastic carrier bag lying beside him. Inside were shards of broken beer bottles. He bent down, grabbed a few more pieces from the ground, and put them in the bag. That’s why his hands were bleeding. I started cleaning his hands with wet wipes so I could help him up and walk him home (call me selfish, but I didn’t want to get blood on my football kit…). Once his hands were as clean as I could manage, I helped Grandpa to his feet. I asked for his address but he just mumbled and gestured. Realising I wasn’t understanding, he pointed towards a nearby block of flats, then indicated two numbers with his fingers—his flat number, I guessed. I pressed the right button on the entryphone and soon a woman’s anxious voice answered. Grandpa murmured again. Within moments, a man and woman dashed outside—both immediately fussed over Grandpa, checking he was okay. The man thanked me and scooped Grandpa up to carry him inside. The woman kept asking how she could thank me. I refused, about to leave, when she suddenly asked me to wait, as if she’d remembered something. She rushed back inside and soon reappeared with a huge basket of raspberries. “Home grown,” she beamed. I thanked her, but tried to refuse. “Go on, take them,” she insisted. “We nearly lost our minds when we came back from the allotment and Grandpa was missing. Here’s the thing: he was captured by the Germans in the war. Because he held an important post, he injured his own tongue so he wouldn’t speak under interrogation. There wasn’t exactly much hygiene in those camps, so by the time he escaped, the infection was so bad half his tongue had to be removed. That’s why he can’t talk, only makes sounds. Local teenagers have taken to drinking beer in our playground in the evenings, smashing the bottles everywhere. We’ve filed police complaints, but nothing gets done. Children get glass in their hands and feet—my own daughter, Sophie, cut her foot badly once. That’s why Grandpa started sweeping up after those hooligans—so the little ones wouldn’t get hurt. But he’s old now, his legs barely hold him. We’ve tried everything, even hiding his keys, but he keeps going out. Once, when I was on shift, he fell and lay in the cold for five hours—no one helped. We were just about to go searching when you called up on the entryphone. Thank you.” After that story, I was speechless. She pressed the raspberry basket into my hands and I gave her a grateful bow—honestly, there were no words. Halfway home, I broke down in tears. Why is our country like this? Why does everyone only think of themselves? Please, if you ever see someone who has fallen and can’t get up, don’t just assume they’re a drunk. Go over and ask! They might need your help. And especially—young people—let’s remember that we are HUMANS, not PIGS!

Granddad

Its summertime. Im walking home in the evening after training, when I notice an elderly gentleman whos collapsed on the pavement and cant get up. Everyone passing by avoids him, assuming he must be drunk, while he just mumbles to himself and reaches out to people for help. Since I was little, Mum has always told me to help others however I can, so I go over and ask, Do you need some help? He cant really say anything coherentjust mutters and reaches towards me.

A woman passing by shoots me a disapproving look and says, Leave him alone, cant you see hes drunk? Youll catch something, honestly. And look at his state, hes filthy! You’ll get all mucky! Looking closer, I realise his hands are covered in blood. An uneasiness sets in. I ask whats happened to him, but again, theres only unintelligible mumbling, and then he picks up a plastic bag lying next to him. Inside I see broken beer bottles. He picks up a few more glass shards from the ground, putting them in the bag. Thats why his hands are bleeding. I start wiping his hands with wet wipes before helping him to his feet and hopefully taking him home (maybe Im selfish, but I didnt want to get blood all over my clothes).

After tidying up his hands, I help granddad up. When I ask his address, he doesnt answerjust keeps mumbling and gesturing. Realising I cant understand him, he starts pointing the way. Thats how I help him to a flat block just nearby. He points at the intercom and gestures two numbers with his fingers, and I guess that must be his flat. I buzz, and a worried womans voice answers immediately. Granddad mumbles something again. Moments later, a man and woman rush out to us. They fuss over the old gentleman, checking him over to see if hes alright, then the man turns to thank me warmly before carefully carrying granddad indoors. The woman keeps asking how they can thank me. I tell her its fine and get ready to leave, but she stops me, remembering something, and dashes inside. A minute later, she returns, breathless, holding a massive basket of raspberries. Homegrown! she beams. I thank her but try to refuse. Go on, take them, she insists. We nearly lost our wits when we got back from the cottage and found Dad had wandered off.

So, heres the thing, she explains. During the war, the Germans captured him. He held an important post and, so as not to accidentally give anything away, he injured his own tongue. Back then, there was no proper treatment, so by the time he got out, infection had set in and half his tongue had to be removed. Now he can barely speak, just makes noises really, like someone whos deaf. Now, at the park in our estate, teenagers have taken to drinking beer in the evenings, smashing their bottles wherever they like. Weve even complained to the police, but nothings been done. The kids end up playing with the glass or, worse, cutting themselves again and again. Granddad started cleaning up the glass after my daughter, Daisy, sliced her leg open. He wants to keep the children safe, but hes oldhis legs arent steady anymore. Weve tried everything to stop him, even hiding the front door keys, but he always finds a way. One time he fell, and by the time Id finished my shift, hed been lying outside for five hours and no one had helped him. We were about to go search for him when you called up. Thank you so much.

After hearing her story, I was lost for words. She pressed the basket of raspberries into my hands and, bowing my head in thanks (yes, reallyI couldnt think of anything to say), I made my way home. Halfway there, I burst into tears. Why is it like this in our country? Why do we only think of ourselves? I urge all of you: if you see someone fall and cant get up, dont assume theyre just drunk. Go and checkmaybe they really do need your help! Especially to the younger generation: remember, we are PEOPLE, not pigs!