Raymond wasn’t overweight, but he was doughy and a bit paunchy.
None of his muscles were visible, and I suspect he only ever used the ones in his forearms with any degree of regularity.
His sartorial choices did not flatter his unprepossessing physique: slouchy denims, baggy T-shirts with childish slogans and images.
He dressed like a boy rather than a man. His toilette was sloppy too, and he was usually unshaven—
it was not a beard as such, but patchy stubble, which merely served to make him look unkempt.
His hair, a mousy, dirty blond, was cut short and had been given minimal attentionat most, perhaps a rub with a grubby towel after washing.
The overall impression was of a man who, whilst not exactly a vagrant,
had certainly slept rough in a flophouse or on a stranger’s floor the previous evening.
“Here’s our bus, Eleanor,” Raymond said, nudging me rudely. I had my travel pass ready but, typically, Raymond did not possess one,
preferring to pay well over the odds for want of a few moment’s advance planning.
He did not, it transpired, even have the correct change, and so I had to lend him a pound. I would be sure to recoup it at work tomorrow.
The journey to his mother’s house took about twenty minutes, during which I explained the benefits of a travel pass to him,
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