he had a sticky-out bottom and

a forward-leaning posture like

Groucho Marx and Max Wall.

50 if a day, he couldn't half move,

speeding past our window, you'd 

swear he was on a skateboard. 

at Lloyds Bank, behind the scenes, 

sheet of A4 in hand, going full pelt,

he was normally too preoccupied 

to recognise me paying-in.

instead, looking at his back, all I 

could see were those pert buttocks 

squeezed and squashed into 

belted suit trousers hoisted up 

dangerously close to his ribcage.

on our street, he hurtled past, barely

whispering hello. He must have been shy. 

I thought of him fondly as Mr. Bumfrantic.