i drove past a bus queue on this freezing morning
six of the seven looked rigid and miserable
the seventh was a stout party, about eighteen stone, with a wide and guileless face, dressed in the kind of charity shop clothes from long passed decades that a caring institution might provide
he stood with feet wide apart and bounced up and down, his head thrown back, his right hand using a half-eaten apple as a plectrum for his air guitar
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