The man, in his fifties, was walking along Platform 5 at Sydenham Station. He was bald (or perhaps his head was deliberately shaved) except he had a little rat tail a couple of inches long right at the base of his skull, which was dyed platinum blond and hung down just over his collar. He wore wraparound sunglasses and one of those dress shirts with a skate company’s crazy logo splotched all over it, like it had been tagged with graffiti. Also very baggy jeans. He had a pouty mouth and a bleeding cut on his face (presumably from shaving). In his hand, in an empty plastic vitamin bottle lined with aluminium foil, he carried a small bouquet of wilted blue flowers. He hadn’t gotten off the train that had just pulled in, nor did he seem interested in getting on it. He was just walking along the platform, on some romantic errand.