Killing time. Chapter four.

Time for a story.


I smiled as I listened. It was a long way home and the old man’s story was really rather entertaining.

“So, you’re a refugee yourself I assume, does that mean that I’m the younger you and we’re all soon to starve to death?”

The old man shook his head.

“No, no, you’re not me. I’d not be seen dead in those things…” Again the old man tapped my foot with that bloody stick of his.

“Hey, a hundred and forty quid these “things” cost me.”

“How much would a nice pair have cost?”

I laughed, warming to the sarcastic, old bastard, and looked up to see a large lady in a heavy, blue coat trying to remain upright as the driver applied his brakes.

“Ooops.“

She smiled at me, appearing a little embarrassed by her unsteadiness, straightened her collar and continued on by.

“Ah, time for another b-b-bun.” The old man said as he struggled to cram yet another pair of spectacles into his now-bulging coat pocket.

“I… I…”, I glanced at the clock on my phone, suddenly feeling a little nauseated. It was nearly ten to twelve.

“Ah, time for another bun.”

“Déjà vu again.”

“Deja déjà vu vu?”

“Pardon.”

“Ah, time for another bun. Now, as I was saying…”
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