He, and what we presumed was his wife, were sitting at the table across from us in the coffee shop when I noticed that he was making drawings. He seemed to be drawing me drawing. It reminded me of all those years ago in the Royal Festival Hall when M and I were doing the very same thing. He looked like him too. He had the same loose linen trousers, the linen shirt and the beard and he was using what looked like hand-made sketchbooks. But there was no pipe. Maybe he had one in his pocket for later. When they got up to leave he came over. He had a trace of accent, was it German, Swiss or Dutch (hence Wolfgang). He talked about taking life-classes. He showed me his drawings and asked to see mine. You are a painter, he said. His response to my work was kind and genuine. It made me feel good. And he asked me to show his wife too. Oh, she said, that’s me.
The man sitting outside Matalan yesterday who asked him for change was sitting outside Smiths this morning as I walked. Good afternoon, he shouted, adding, any change? I explained that I didn’t carry any money. Have a good evening then, he said, unphased. You too, I replied aware of the ludicrousness of such knee-jerk responses. What’s wrong with your leg by the way? he called after me. I stopped and turned round to face him (his face lit in up in the dark by his iPad) oh, it’s just a bad hip, I said. Is it arthritis? he asked. I was going to explain, touched by his care but he’d lost interest and had turned away. I carried on walking smiling at his lugubriousness. I told him the tale at breakfast. I liked him, he said.
