Sunday. A crisp winter morning. Hoar frost on railings and garden hedges. From a cloudless sky the sun, low on the horizon, shines directly into the eyes and sends the landscape into sudden darkness. We opt for an early walk in the local park.
A park bench just inside the entrance gate is a favourite of people down on their luck, especially homeless men of a certain age. They are usually dishevelled, often with long, untended hair and matted beards, and clothes that bear the stains of long use and infrequent cleaning. They are generally affable, as ready to engage in conversation as to accept a donation. We were not surprised, therefore, to see a man sitting on that bench. He was staring into space and paid no attention to us.
