The clink-clink of a loose drain cover rocked back and forth.
"Shee? I'm shurfing."
The walker turns his head back.
"Yeah." A pause. "Good for you."
The walker moves on. The surfer - bearded, greying - follows, past the shops, down the hill.
"See there? Ringo Shtarr."
The walker looks. There's a sepia photograph of Ringo Starr in a shop window.
"I'm on my way to a Robert Plant shingalong. You know? Robert Plant? Led Zeppelin?" The walker nods. "It'sh not far. Want to come?"
"I have to catch a train. Sorry."
"If your mattress wash here, you could just go wherever. Shtay out wherever you liked."
"Yeah. But it's not, I'm afraid. It's in Hackney."
"But if your mattress wash here, you could go wherever."
"Yeah... that's true. Still, I have to get this train."
The walker speeds up. The surfer slows, but shouts, "Led Zeppelin," invitingly after the walker. The walker smiles, but doesn't look back. He heads straight for the station. He kind of regrets it, though.