He doesn’t look like a Peter. I hear him from my flat and I turn up the telly to obliterate the cacophony of swear words invading the street. I wonder if he has Tourette’s, but my neighbour, Nick, says, “No, he’s like that after his injections.”
He pops up frequently; his eyes are playful and unfocused, but I sense the warmth in them so I say hello.
Today I spot him routing through a bin by the bus stop. When he sees me, he looks up and says, “Hello, Miss, have you got a cigarette?”
“No, sorry,” I say.