Coming out of the loo in the Rose & Crown on Lower Slone Street I felt a tug and thought I must have hair caught on a chair. I turned round and saw a Chelsea pensioner holding my hair in his hand.
He recited a poem about his Danish daughter, Amelia, her aquatic life in the womb. Here eyes he described as Whitby jet.
He hated the X Factor but most of all Carol Thatcher.
He loathed vulgarity. Respected Rodin’s The Kiss. This he thought was something beautiful-love not lust. I don’t know how he would have felt about Auguste Rodin the man…or even the sculpture of Balzac.
He described a look he had seen a man give to a woman at the bar and he said this was the only thing that made him feel OK when he went back to the hospital.
He thought of his Danish wife and daughters and felt they had washed away on an iceflow in the night.
