He was small and square, and had caught my eye because of his tomato-red sweater,
which burst out from beneath his standard-issue pensioner grays and muted pastels.
Almost in slow motion, the old man began to weave and wobble erratically,
swaying wildly from side to side, his bulging carrier bags creating a sort of human pendulum.
“Drunk in the daytime,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Raymond.
Raymond opened his mouth to reply when the old man finally toppled, fell backward hard and lay still.
His shopping exploded around him, and I noticed he’d bought Tunnock’s Caramel Logs and a jumbo pack of sausages.
“Shit,” said Raymond, stabbing at the button on the crossing control.
“Leave him,” I said. “He’s drunk. He’ll be fine.” Raymond stared at me.
“He’s a wee old man, Eleanor. He smacked his head on that pavement pretty hard,” he said.
Then I felt bad. Even alcoholics deserve help, I suppose, although they should get drunk at home, like I do,
so that they don’t cause anyone else any trouble. But then, not everyone is as sensible and considerate as me.
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