The Irish Tales

It struck me the other day, (which day is unimportant really) that it is remarkable easy to spot Second Lifers.
No, it isn’t their walking sticks, or zimmer frames or those mechanised wheelchairs which cause such panic on the quiet streets.
It’s the way they have of simply ignoring the passage of time; wherever or whatever they’re doing.
Let me illustrate.
It is my habit, on occasions when the weather is clement, to sit outside the Orange Pekoe café at the top of White Hart Lane, with some Assam and possibly a danish, a copy of the Telegraph folded to the crossword page and a packet of full strength Marlboro.
I sip, I nibble, I fill in a clue or two, I smoke heavily, but mainly I watch the world as it goes by.
Well, some of it, anyway.
The frenzied mob, with their strained, pained faces, their mobiles glued to their head and their frantic need to Be Somewhere Else, simply pass me by.
And then something, or rather, someone, catches my eye.
In this case, it was a tall, thin, bald fellah, who was standing stock still by the side of the roundabout and looking upwards.
He was carrying a book under his arm, the title of which I could not make out. (My eyesight isn’t what it was.)
He kept this pose for, oh, two cigarettes ? Then shook his head and walked away, pausing now and then to look skywards.
I observed this at least three times and puzzled over it for at least, oh, a packet.
Then one day, there was a change. After the usual long stare at the sky, instead of wandering off, he walked up to the café and sat down at the table next to me.
He ordered coffee, laid his book down on the table and smiled pleasantly enough at me.
Now; as you will know, I do not encourage the familiarity of strangers, so I cut him dead and concentrated on the crossword.
(It’s for their own good, by the way. If they knew me, they would be scared and if they weren’t scared, then they were stupid. Either way, I see no benefit for anybody.)
And then,and then……………
My lighter ran out of fuel. I clicked and clicked and got no flame. What could I do when he offered his own lighter, except accept and thank him grudgingly ?
The dam broke.
He was my age, he was divorced, in his First Life he was a meteorologist.
I nodded, grunted and did my best to discourage him. And eventually he lapsed into silence.
Then suddenly : “I suppose you’re wondering why I spend so much time looking up at the sky ?”
I shrugged, fearing the worst.
He inched his chair closer to me, looked around cautiously, then said: “I’m trying to see the join.”
Then he abruptly stood up and walked away. I never saw him again.
The book, by the way, was Oliver Sack’s “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat”.