October 27

Old man in a blue suit tottering across Balham High Road. Stopping and starting in little spurts.

Why doesn’t cross at the lights? Why risk the streaming traffic, going so slowly, his stiff legs stuttering back and forth like a robotic pigeon.

Half way across and he looks up the road, at the oncoming traffic, shielding his eyes from the sun. Stepping forward and suddenly back. Almost lost his toes. Orange supermarket bag around one wrist, walking stick stamping the air.

He shudders across the rest of the road, pigeons wheeling around above, sensing easy pickings perhaps.

They’re right. The old man stops at the chesnut tree around which the pigeons are gathering, its trunk as gnarled as the old man’s fingers. He starts feeding the pigeons from his orange bag.