Bench

Sitting on a bench, he is. In this lovely park with its lake, playground and walks criss-crossing. Bold as you like, eating a sandwich from his blue Tupperware box. He sits in the middle of the park bench to ward off anyone sitting next to him. It’s a lovely sunny day and people are about, sitting on benches, walking dogs, feeding ducks.

I can see him, his old-fashioned walking stick propped against the bench, the long grey hair, full grey beard and all that tweed. Jacket, trousers and waistcoat. Dapper, you might say. Walking stick with its gold bushel and rubber foot - probably a prop to match the rest of him - eating his crab sandwich.

I’m the only one who sees him, of course; everyone else is oblivious. There are some older folk who pass by with a “lovely day” or a nod, or even a hat tip to the old fellow. There are joggers - earbuds, tight-fitting lyra - who don’t notice. I do.

I’m behind a tree, with my Olympus camera, an old 35mm. There is a great variety of birds that gather here together. We humans ignore each other in this beautiful park.

I’ve taken enough shots of him, so now I’m doing the observing bit. The mannerisms, the timekeeping. 13:12 on average, plus or minus a minute. He’s got two traffic cones. In forty-one minutes, he will get up from his bench and place them on it, neatly spaced. They do stay there, surprisingly, on his bench. Yes, his bench. Actually, it’s Hilda Parkin’s (deceased) bench; there is a plaque. Hilda and our fellow have probably never met; he’s not a Parkin, though he looks like one.

Fastidious, yes. But a little bit sloppy, certainly. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.