BS

I have a new acquaintance.

I think he may be from India originally but I can’t differentiate between Indians and people from Pakistan. I also fail the Kiwi, Australian test. I’ll call him BS, no, not that. BS for bus shelter. He hangs out in a local bus shelter at a bus stop I use regularly. He just sits in it. In his slippers, with his walking frame. He’s not a drunk, a drug addict or homeless. Just broke and bored with impaired mobility. He lives across the road from his regular seat. People buy him tea at the cafe, he seems to know everyone. We’re on first name terms now.

The conversation usually starts by him saying he’s only got £12 in the bank. He asks me for a fiver. I say sorry, no. He’s not offended, he rolls his eyes, never repeats the request in one visit and yes I do feel like I’m visiting him rather that waiting for the bus. After his request the chat begins. Yesterday’s topic was me, my hair in particular.

You must be nearly 60, he says. I am, I say. Could it be my wheely bag that gave me away?

He says, You should dye your hair… You’d look years and years younger…. I think you’d look very nice…

He may well be right.

I refrain from saying that the day I start taking style tips from a slightly unkempt bloke, in his slippers, in a bus shelter, will be the day I give up for good.

At this point the bus came

He needs to reconsider his approach, he’s never going to get that five quid.