Rent to the ideal/Polish interlude

There was something familiar about the man, but I couldn’t quite work out what it was. It was about ten past six, and I was on my way home from the station after another excruciatingly boring day at work. The man was standing at the junction of York Hill and Knolley’s Road, looking lost, slightly agitated. I knew I shouldn’t have let us make eye contact, but I couldn’t help it, couldn’t ignore him.
“Polskie?” he asked hopefully. He seemed almost tearful.
“No, I’m English, I replied.”
“English. I try to get to friend.” He held out an Oyster card. “Sutton, but no…”
Ok, he wanted money, Fine. I wasn’t going to brush him off, but I wanted this to be over as quickly as possible. I had already begun to dig into my pockets as he tried to explain further in one word sentences.
“I don’t have much money on me,” I said. I couldn’t actually see exactly what I had extracted from my pocket. A couple of quid I imagined. I put it in his outstretched hand. Suddenly, he grasped me pulling me into a firm embrace, weeping onto my shoulder. I tried to pull away, but his grip was strong.
“Er, I think I ought to go now, I said.” I could see people on the street staring, looking concerned, I liked to think. “I need to go. Good luck.” Eventually, he let me go, and I hurried up the rest of the hill smiling, feeling embarrassed. Telling myself that if I had been fooled, then fair enough. Rent to the ideal, as E.M. Forster put it in Howard’s End.