Seeping into his buttocks, the cold of the marble began to affect Iain’s concentration. He regretted not tossing his ‘num-bum’ cushion into his backpack. These steps were his shed. Here he was, in the centre of a teeming city, and yet invisibly getting on with ‘secret men’s business’.
Iain tolerated the ‘born again’ bloke on the western corner until the blooming megaphone waved in his general direction. He studied the antics of the ‘Big Magazine’ hawker on the eastern corner, as he endeavoured to track down the soft touches passing by. He was relieved that he was too far from the sad-case endeavouring to blast out Elvis on the treble recorder. From experience, Iain realised that the more pathetic the guilt-trip, the more coins in the coffer come the end of the shift.
He stretched the small of his back, and adjusted both numb cheeks.
‘Blimey, I’ve read that bit.’