Though I know him, his name escapes me. He is really a friend of a friend of a friend, the first of which connector I no longer see or hear from. Perhaps it would be different I was still using social media. Perhaps not. He walks past the house on his way to work each day, a briefcase in one hand. He is suited, bespectacled, a look (he is the last person on earth who would consider himself possessing one) that has not changed in years. In winter he wears a blue woollen coat, with leather gloves. When it rains he dons an oversized Berghaus anorak with Velcro pockets. He appears when everyone else has gone in, sometime after half-nine, on some days around ten or just after. I sense in him a deep air of privacy, guarded and protected. He makes his way with caution, mostly looking down at the pavement. I wonder what it is that he is carrying, beside that briefcase of his. He seems so weighed down, so serious. The last time we spoke was just after the referendum result, a lifetime ago, at an event hosted by our departed connecting friends. We didn’t say much to each other. We didn’t need to. Though I suspect he has long ago forgotten who I am, on the occasions that he does lift his head and see me approaching, he greets me with old-fashioned courtesy. He seems from another time.
