Wilfred the old man from York was everything you could want your eccentric old man to look like. A white lick of hair on his head sticking upwards like a peacock's plume, delicately presenting a bald patch you could see your reflection in. He was the sort of gentleman would often burst out laughing for no apparent reason, to the bemusement of youthful onlookers, and could be seen by locals in his suburbia to be sat on the same seat for hours on end. Other times he was more sombre, and would sit still and silent. It often looked like the elements had stopped working around him, freezing his movements and expressions and feelings. The more sensitive of his neighbours would be kind to him where others were not. "It's such a shame, he doesn't really talk to people anymore, not since what happened", his once close gossip partner Mavis from no.32 would say. "He puts on a happy face, just like before Lesley died, but now it seems so strained, so forced, - it's heartbreaking to see". Others' sympathies were absent, like Mr Bryce from the garage, "Good riddance I say, unnatural relationship the two of them had, I hope Wilfred sees sense and tops himself now from his solitude".

Today was a windy February morning, but the sun couldn't be brighter. Wilfred was spick and span in appearance, sharp navy blue suit from his old engagement party, and taut up to the top button he proudly wore a sparkling red bow tie, with little silver musical quavers and crotchets. He popped into the local shop down Castle Street. Upon entering, he tried squeezing past some frightfully hideous teenagers in skull and crossbones hoodies to reach the Telegraph. "Ullgh pervy granddad, get off me!". Fools, he thought, yet with a slight pain in his earand I thought they were the open-minded generation? Can't people be more sympathetic; it's not as if he hasn't been open these last 40 years.

Wandering the well travelled path to the local park, sniffing the rich blossom by the footpath, he saw his bench and frowned quite aghast. Typical, more youths, littering his bench with kebabs and burger juice. Sure enough, strewn across the green bench by the pond were the canoodling bodies of a peroxide blond and a tall muscular man, and a couple of their eyebrow pierced friends, dropping the odd rizla and burger carton all over the seat.

"Gerrof, get outta here!" Wilfred shouted quite without thinking, "Go on get lost!", running like a headless chicken, white hair jumping up and down

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