Man Outside the British Library
He sits outside the crowded café eating a ham panini. The
brushed steel of the chair sends icy shivers through the thin worsted of his
suit trousers. He glances through the steamy windows and wishes he had bought a
coffee, but when he ordered the white wine he had not known there were no seats
left. His hand brushes his chin. He should have shaved. Instead, he chose ten
more minutes in bed. Better that than face the frosty dawn. A finger of breeze
flicks through his small pile of papers, threatening to lift them from the
table. He places a large, leather bound volume on top of the errant heap. The
red book is itself overflowing. Stuffed between its leaves are loose letters and
clippings from newspapers. His documents are a metaphor for his life - a messy
affair, cluttered, disorganised and inconstant danger of flying out of control.
