The Naked Broker: Buffalo broker

13 May 2010

I just made the 5.58am train to Waterloo on Monday morning, jumping through the doors with my bike in my arms, seconds before the driver, who’d seen me running, could shut them. Flustered and breathless, I wedged my bike in between two seats and took the nearest spot available, sitting down among the fish-grey, serried ranks of the commuting undead. I readjusted my testicles for comfort and symmetry and settled back with my copy of EuroWeek.

Gripping as last week’s page-turner was, over the top of it, I glimpsed the Caribbean tea-cosy and dreadlocks of a Rastafarian labourer who, it gradually became apparent, was meticulously rolling a long, thin white cigar-shaped thing in his lap.

He had the hands of a blind cobbler but ...

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