Waiting at the bus-stop with me:

A lady in her early 70’s, grey curly hair and a warm smile on her face as she watches her grandson out of the corner of her eye. The young boy, perhaps 4 years old, sits next to her on the small bus-stop bench. He has a mischievous yet ultimately innocent face, anointed with freckles beneath a side parting of ginger-red hair. She has given up trying to keep his small hands clean of the bus-stop dirt and grime that they are so keen to explore. Now he lies sideways on the bench stomping his miniature Reeboks up the side of the shelter.

An older man, his ears and nose testimony to the rumour that they never stop growing, shelters beneath a Dick Tracy style over-coat. A fairly new flat-cap comfortably covers his white hair. I imagine the grin on his face as he unwrapped it on Christmas day, glad that his daughter-in-law had noticed the old one was wearing thin. A folded newspaper protrudes from his over-coat, stuffed sideways between the buttons, and he watches unswervingly for the arrival of the bus.