The crazy guy who stands on the street corner beneath the Max Hotel talking to himself or to imaginary companions, who I saw sleeping in the corner seat of McDonald’s the other morning when I went in for my breakfast, is waiting to cross the road beneath me now. His face is in profile to me, and I can see he has sad eyes. He is clean shaven, always, apart from his bushy moustache, and he chats away to whoever, but he has sad eyes. Again I wonder what his story is. A real bitterness and pain and sadness in his eyes. Ah there’s that blonde jogger again, with lovely big big black tracksuited bottom, dayglo pink socks.