December 2

I was waiting outside Waterstones, taking my turn on the busy street, rain threatening in heavy clouds bobbing like the blotched faces swirling around the market.

An old man appeared in front of me, achingly slow like a steam engine without any puff. I waited with only the smallest sense of impatience.

Did he feel it?

Or was he up to some mischief? He stopped in front of me, making me arch around him and awkwardly enter the street; and sigh and think he meant that.