a troubled man

Saturday morning shopping, and I run into a new member of the Kilburn nutter’s club. I’m waiting for the bus and he lurches towards me, bald head covered in globules of an unknown ointment that’s he’s neglected to rub in. He’s wearing an unbelievably grubby pair of shorts with the fly agape, and reaches out a hand in my direction, mouthing something in an unidentifiable language that may or may not be human, his mouth working overtime beneath frantically darting eyes. He’s looks helplessly dangerous. I see the bus coming, change direction smartly and jump the queue to avoid him. As we move off I glance out the window, where he appears to be miming sex with an abandoned shopping trolley.