He knows him. As do I, but from more of a distance. He frequents the same coffee shop we do. And I draw him, often. He comes in with either his friend, a bloke with long, slightly curly hair, a hooked nose and glasses, or what we call his ‘carers’. There are two woman who do it and a large man who wears a heavy overcoat and has (if my memory serves me right) bicycle clips around his trouser bottoms. They talk to him and walk with him on the Prom. But they always seem to have a coffee together first. Yesterday he was with the younger of the two women. She is tall, wide girl with jet black locks and who seems to favour pink coats, jackets and sweat tops. She makes him laugh. They sat a table next to ours. She was asking him what he’d made for his supper the night before. Chickpeas, he said. What, just chickpeas? she asked. No, it was a kind of soup. Oh, like an Indian thing? she said. Yes. Anything else? Yes, I had some bread. What a couple of slices? No, he said, the whole loaf. You didn’t? Yes, he said. Any pudding? Yes, I had some cheesecake. Oh, what type? Those mini ones from Tesco’s. Oh. I had two last night. There was a pause, and then he continued. And I had the other two this morning.
