Waiting for the 345. 3pm.
The elderly Rastafarian man stood slightly to the left of the bus stop, in the full glare of the mid-afternoon sun.
His billowing black and red coat proclaimed in hand-stitched gold letters the greatness of King Haile Selassie I.
His bobbly woollen Rasta hat swayed cheerfully from side to side.
A passing breeze tickled his tangled beard.
His rheumy eyes seemed to take in the dusty street, the traffic lights, the pale sky. Then he looked down.
‘Everything gonna be alright, everything gonna be alright,’ he sang, gazing at the Paddy Power betting slip in his right hand.