Raymond

Coming out of the men's toilets in a local pub, I run into two elderly men on a bench facing the door.  They have the look of an institution.  I approach the elder of the two.  He is wearing a shooting hat and a corduroy jacket and his lips are turned into his mouth.  His skin is papery.  On one hand is a glove, in the other is a folded handkerchief.  I have to lean in to hear what he is saying.  He tells me his name and then that he has lost the feather for his hat and is looking for a new one.  His companion, younger and more rotund with a colourful knitted jumper, shakes my hand and starts a conversation.  We discuss how long I have been in the area, music venues and the fact that they used to come to this pub before it was renovated.  The elder of the two tries to remember the name of the big venue in Brixton.  'Fucking huge', he says.  He has a badge on his lapel that says 'Oxjam'.  I leave them to finish their pints.  'It's nice to meet someone who's willing to engage', says the younger.