Stanley

In the park with a cousin and her toddler, we meet, at a gate, a gentleman walking a curly-haired dog.  His hair is combed over in a side-parting.  'That's different', he says when I ask my question.  'I'm interested in things that are different'.  He used to work in a men's outfitters on the King's Road, 'and on the fringes of show business, you know', he says.

'Well, I've never told anyone this before', he says in response to my question, 'but when I was born they thought that I might be mentally retarded'.  I nod.  'My mother wanted to call me Simon but she was worried about the connotations', he says.  'I used to be known by my middle name'.  When he was nineteen a friend and he decided that they liked the name Simon and he has been known as it ever since.  'The hardest part was getting my family to change', he says.

I am about to move on but he has more to say.  He tells me that he is a park warden because he walks dogs so regularly.  'The police here all know me very well', says.  'Not like that, you know'.  He tells me that he often ends up doing their job but the toddler and the dog are getting restless.  We begin to part ways.

'You're the only person I've ever told that story to', he reminds me.