Is it just me – or don't you see tramps these days?
You know – proper tramps. Gentlemen of the road, badgering you for the price of a portion of chips and a flagon of the finest freshly-pressed scrumpy, living like kings of the road in cardboard palaces under the railway arches of our towns and cities.
Characters to a man, a far cry from the modern wino who is virtually indistinguishable from market-stall tracksuit-clad binge-drinking chav.
Their own way of life. Their own secret signals. Their own private haunts in the unwanted, crumbling quarters of town, huddled round camp fires, sharing their tales of the road.
A dying breed – where are they now?
In other news: God, it there ANOTHER kebab shop opening in town? You've got to love that smoky, cider-marinated taste of a large doner and chips.
Actually – that's not a bad idea. I hope nobody's got in before me.