“Well, I can tell you about this guy, he’s an absolute funny guy, wrote the most amazing books about a discworld and then he died, just like that. Look at that picture of him, he has a wizard’s hat, always wore it when he was out.”
The two old men, swayed in front of my door, shoulder to shoulder, two friends, telling each other about all the books in the window. One of them was holding a radio, which was softly broadcasting the football. Suddenly they both stopped talking and looked down at the radio, concerned.
What was that he said?
No, it’s all right, all alright…the man holding the radio lifted a calming hand, don’t get up about it.
They turned back to the window and stared at Terry Pratchett, at Agatha Christie and at Winston Churchill. One of the men said: I never held with that fellow.
The other man said: no, that’s right.
Then they looked at all the children’s books, came up close to the window and said: look at all those kiddie’s books, good on them…good on all of them.
Then they turned away and went slowly up the street, looking down at the radio, at the football, one man had his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they turned, possibly consoling him about the score.