One Man's Retirement

In Oxford we watched for three months the old man, his leg in plaster, lean against the wall outside the building where the Simon people cared for him. He always gave a friendly greeting, with his Irish accent, putting some life back into our tired bodies, as we rushed by on our way to work. His younger mates preferred the benches further down the street, where they drank the bottle of cider, hidden away from the night before. Later in the day, senile old ladies gathered on benches and listened to the lilting of his Irish brogue.