Walking companions

Every Saturday two old men walk down the road outside my house, hand in hand. One has a wooden stick and the other has a captains hat. They sway from side to side, as they edge their way cautiously down the road. When others pass them on the pavement they cling to each other more closely and their eyes flicker up from the ground nervously. I often see them, making their painstaking pilgrimage to the park at the same time every week.

Another pair a few days earlier, walking towards Chelsea as I'm going the other way. They both wear smart long overcoats with velvet collars. Cashmere scarves crossed on their chests underneath, a small lip of colour just showing against their necks. Each has their right arm crooked at the elbow. In their right hands a cigarette, glowing tip facing down towards the pavement. Matching each other step for confident step, their hair smartly combed. They look almost identical, even though one is a generation older than the other. You sense they see the world the same way.

The smell of their cigarette smoke lingers on the air as they pass by.