As he skimmed his paper, he occasionally checked his mobile. Every so often, the paper draped over his knees, as he cradled his head in his hands. The sun was struggling to warm him through. He did not appear to be in a hurry, although flanked by easy to move and crushable luggage. His dishevelled corduroys distinguished him from the suited businessmen striding across the intersection.
These steps have lost their meeting-spot pre-eminence with the advent of mobiles. The longer he crouched huddled over his paper, the more he joined the clan of the Neanderthal. Meeting on these steps is so last century, so working class, so passé. Not that he cared.
Slowly he rose to his feet, neatly folded the paper and returned it to his back-pack, hoisted that over his shoulders, and with one last despairing look at the blank screen, turned and disappeared down into the underground.