Chap in my street
Well, his deepest wish came true two or three weeks ago.
I've only been in the neighbourhood three years - all sorts of characters with all sorts of sad stories - unemployed/ unemployable, wasted souls.

They say he was fifty something when he died. His daily routine, and by the looks of it for quite some time, was to stagger to the corner shop for his rot-gut and stagger back home. If we passed each other he would form phrases which, if written down, would probably make clear sense and provoke a reply, but came out as angry gibberish.

In the last two years of his existence he was on crutches. The shuffle from shack to shop and back (about 80 metres) could take a half an hour.

Totally harmless, inoffensive guy, except for the time he decided to nap in the middle of the road. Drunks are heavy.

As suicides go, alcohol is the most depressing, probably because it just, well, dehumanises.
(roysin, Thu 14 Feb 2013, 12:58, Reply)