A ragged man teeters on the top steps of Waterloo Station. Commuters rush below. Their heads are level with his feet. Chins tucked against the chill they crowd past heading for home.
The man is shivering. His clothes and face are crumpled and old. He wears a filthy woollen hat and a jacket that is too small. One hand clutches a damp grey sleeping bag, the other a paper cup.
“Any help?” He calls, “Any spare?”
His back is bent. He’s rocking slowly from one foot to the other, a worn out sailor on a sea of hasty people.
“Any help? Any spare?”
inkyjim 