Outside the tube station there is a flower stall.
It's a magnificent affair - bustling and bright and perky - and stocks every single flower that you could name: roses, and tulips, and all the other sorts of flower.
I waited there to meet somebody for another Very Important Meeting.
A man lumbered into view. He was well-built, but his bulk came from the several layers of clothing around him. Lugging a huge and filthy backpack, presumably holding his worldly possessions, his face was worn and his beard neglected. I watched him as he approached.
He clutched a polythene bag - the sort that you only get from convenience stores, generic branding and material thinner than advance ticket sales for the Glitter comeback gig. Through the plastic you could see stacked the classic gold of Special Brew - no cheap imitations, two four-packs - formally identifying him as a member of the paramilitary wing of CAMRA. He reached the stall and rummaged in this bag.
"Here," he croaked, pulling out a tiny box of Ferrero Rocher and awkwardly offering it to the lady on the flower stall. "I just wanted to say thank you very much."
And with that he was gone.