With the heavy scrape of laden legs he made his way along the corridor. The pace was irregular, the scrapes resonating to an uncomfortable offbeat timing. Some were lingering while others rose to a curt crescendo as his well worn sandals used the flagstones as a braking surface. He cut a gloomy figure in the dim hallway, clad in smoke abused clothes, a well-worn sleeveless top and a faded yankies cap. He stared longingly towards me, hoping for an attentive ear. “They stole my phone” he said, his pace quickening as the stairwell neared. “That’s a shame,”I replied, “what happened?” “€150, pain in the arse!” he replied. I commiserated once more, before making a quick round trip to the garden and back.
His zimmer frame stripped of the integrated cushion, he sat on the stairs, rifling through the paraphenalia, a fresh packet of samson open before him. I wished him good luck.
Coming home that evening he greeted me once more, this time spread across his ground floor window sill, a dark cigarette smouldering in his hand. “I’m keeping an eye out for burglars.”