stock old men have arthritis

The old man walked down the street at night. He felt cold. Part of being old seemed to be feeling cold. There was, after all only one letter separating them. And being old and feeling cold meant being and feeling tired. This would explain to a silent observer why his progress down Sea Street was painfully slow to behold, though the only set of eyes that did so were the bright dark one of an urban fox, staring from the shadows. Pain was another part of age as well. The young felt pain in great flares that could tear them apart. But there were also great intervals between this pain, to the point where they couldn’t remember what it was like until it happened again. His pain was a slow dull burning kind, constant to the point where he himself had forgotten what its absence felt like. Still, that’s what happened when you didn’t have successful children to register you with BUPA.

After progressing in this painfully slow fashion for some 20 minutes, he finally reached his destination, a 24 hour corner shop. It was lit up like a fluorescent island in the dull street lit darkness. He pushed the heavy door open, wheezing with effort. The bell above it chimed and the man behind the counter looked up from his paper.

The old man walked up to the Pakistani. In fairness he had no way of knowing whether he was from Pakistan or not. It didn’t really matter. Old men seemed to be given a little more leeway than most when it came to political correctness.
“20 L&M please” he said
“5.40” the possible Pakistani replied
He fumbled in his pocket for the money. His hands seemed to be working better today, and it was with a shameful pride that he took out the right amount and handed it over without dropping any.

“Thank you sir. Goodnight”
“Night”

He hefted the heavy door open and slowly walked home, his progress charted by the tiny glow of a lit cigarette held in his mouth.