Sometimes, walking down the street in his adopted city,
Malcolm would feel out of place.
It’s summertime; - thirty-two degrees, thirty-one tonight.
He’s baking.
He’s an Irishman baking.
In his big shoes and heavy socks; the ones he brought with him in February because he hasn't gotten around to
buying new ones. They do exist, these
summer socks. These half-a-sock that can only muster up enough enthusiasm to
climb as far as the ankle bone.
He paces hurriedly through crowds, decked out in cords and a
green t-shirt; the one nod to the season. Out come the Pennys t-shirts, three
for a fiver.
Under the arm lies the jacket.
The forecast can’t see further than three weeks ahead…yet it
is adamant there will be no rain. None.
But the jacket never rests. Just in case.
The jacket travels everywhere. Just in case.
You never know.
You can never be too careful.
The locals meanwhile, dress for impact. Lean, tanned bodies.
Happy and bouncy. On show for summer – nine months of crunches to his nine
months of Crunchies.
Like a Porsche taken out for a spin on the first Tuesday of
every month.
Primed, taut, ready.
Malcolm gets the bus.