Every time I meet him, I wish him a good day, and every time he has completely blanked me. Six months, and not a peep out of him.
I'll admit that this has become and obsession, and I have now made a point of offering him a hearty "Good morning", "Good evening" or "Quite the weather we're having, eh?" every time our paths cross.
And every time he blanks me.
Up the Bummy Woods with Wilson, and there he is. He approaches, and - a miracle - he is the first with the greeting, a meek yet Earth-shattering "Hello".
So I blanked the old fart.
I blanked him, and walked away with a glow of triumph.
And I turn, and from the safety of several hundred yards, I ask of him:
I am the worst person in the world.
The battle continues.