January 19

‘Wanna carwash, mate?’ asked the normally cheerful geezer who runs the team of carwashers who work in the Town Hall carpark.

He sat on a curb, square, chipped head on a brick of a fist. He looked sad, inactive, deflated. No one to call out to, to banter with, barter with, hassle in his cheery, wide-boy manner.

‘Don’t drive, mate.’ ‘Oh, right.’

His face sunk and that little cheeky sparkle disappeared. The carpark was empty and it was a cold Sunday morning. His team of immigrant workers were not there. Perhaps his missed them with their huge smiles and few words of English; perhaps he missed feeling like the Emperor of Carwashes. Now he was Ozymandias squatting on the sand, waiting for the wind to cover him.

‘Empty today,’ I said. A pointless observation but I felt compelled to say something to try and cheer him up.

‘Bloody hell, yeah.’ I wanted to say something else, to banter with him but then I remembered how hard he always tried to sell his ‘Carwash For £5.50’ every time I passed.

So I just rushed away.