I am watching an elderly man in a Pret à Manger trying to open the small, finicky lid of a lemonade bottle. I don't know why I am moved. Perhaps it's the brutal juxtaposition of old age and modern life. On the one hand, I realize that it is all part of the game. I will be old some day and caught in a similar situation. Probably. It's just city evolution. On the other, it is an increasingly depressing thought to consider that a moment, clocked by another can make you seem irrelevant.
He wears a beige raincoat, the kind you see on country gentleman. He completes the picture with a tweed cap. His skin is pink and almost translucent from where I sit. It mixes with the rare sunlight to make his pallor closer to a baby's. This only cements the cycle of life all the more. We have to help children with lids too. Bankers rush in, trying to load up on designer sandwiches while marching to their next meeting. Tourists are out to get quick coffee just the way they like it. And the old man trying to open his lemonade. He is balanced precariously on his stool. He looks about to fall over. Should I help him? Should I pity him? Was he ever a young man looking at the aged and debating the same thing? Maybe he would deem me pathetic to even contemplate it?
Two strangers; a man and a woman who look a little beat down, talk about their work colleagues. "He's not performing", the man says "it's just a question of effectiveness". A young continental barrista scans the space for empty cups, crisp packets, abandoned salads. He looks Spanish. He's probably escaping unemployment, escaping home for a bit, making a good impression. Stay in London. Get ahead.
The old man is still struggling with the lid. His arthritis making this an extreme act of concentration. A small Olympic event that only I can see.
He wears a beige raincoat, the kind you see on country gentleman. He completes the picture with a tweed cap. His skin is pink and almost translucent from where I sit. It mixes with the rare sunlight to make his pallor closer to a baby's. This only cements the cycle of life all the more. We have to help children with lids too. Bankers rush in, trying to load up on designer sandwiches while marching to their next meeting. Tourists are out to get quick coffee just the way they like it. And the old man trying to open his lemonade. He is balanced precariously on his stool. He looks about to fall over. Should I help him? Should I pity him? Was he ever a young man looking at the aged and debating the same thing? Maybe he would deem me pathetic to even contemplate it?
Two strangers; a man and a woman who look a little beat down, talk about their work colleagues. "He's not performing", the man says "it's just a question of effectiveness". A young continental barrista scans the space for empty cups, crisp packets, abandoned salads. He looks Spanish. He's probably escaping unemployment, escaping home for a bit, making a good impression. Stay in London. Get ahead.
The old man is still struggling with the lid. His arthritis making this an extreme act of concentration. A small Olympic event that only I can see.
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