He strides towards the corner with breakfast on his mind. Half a litre of milk in his right hand, strips of bacon in his left. His back-drop, the Bedford Boys entering Budgens. He pays them no heed. It's too early in the day for a ‘how do ya do?’.
Short legs, pot belly, crooked face and a bung eye, he holds his ground at the corner waiting for the Mercedes to turn right down Pemberly. The driver waves and he gives her a reluctant nod. He could’ve kept going, made her stop, he could’ve played that card, but just because her seat is heated and he only has one glove doesn’t mean he can’t show class.
The morning sun that warmed his back left his face in shadow. But if you looked hard enough you could see. He drank too much, probably got in with the wrong crowd, had a rough start with a rougher middle, you could judge him all you like, he could see you doing it but he wasn't complaining. He had made peace with the cards he was dealt. Some will call him a loser, a dreg, a layabout who won’t respond to emails, but I see it different. I see inspiration, hope. If he can, why can’t we all? Why can’t we all stop complaining and step forward into the day with the confidence of the bung eyed man?