The sun is barely making it’s way over the fells, still dark below and hard to make out the details of the river curve, the marginal sand-bags left over from the flood warning, the hidden crown of Skiddaw – there are some folk about gently making their way into church, passing time on the wet pavement glistening in the streetlamps like the skin of a mollusc when the lonely figure shuffles across the road, clutching a copy of the Sunday Sport, some eggs and a pint of milk. His complete bald head so pale it shines in a similar manner to the wet ground upon which he walks, temper clean, some washed deity springing forth atop his shoulders. His oversized pyjama trousers flap studious in the wind, sticking to his shins, calcified there by age – armour, shell, you name it, they’re never known to come off; and above, his short sheepskin jacket bulbous from chubby waist up. As he walks he ferrets his eyes all over: the church front, me standing waiting for my early lift to work, the gathering congregation. When he spots them he stops, holds back from getting too close, mouthing and mothering under his breath but still audible, like the odd mewling of a young otter. When he knows he is alone again he moves, hugging the blue shadows, walking beneath trees like a latter day Quasimodo or Uncle Fester. Homeward, to close the door before the world has truly woken.