Every morning Declan O’Malley and Charles Taylor nod at each other in Little Waitrose, as they collect a free coffee with their myWaitrose cards. Declan, a 55-year-old social worker, is a part-time performance poet. He discovered the genre on YouTube and now recites his stuff at poetry slams in a special emphatic voice, unconsciously inspired by Benjamin Zephaniah. When he can, he takes his latte to the library and sits in a fug of students and homeless people, testing lyrics under his breath.
Charles, 74, a retired civil servant, knows he could get a better cappuccino elsewhere, but refuses to be fleeced of £2.70 for a hot drink. Paper cup in hand, he rummages through the reduced bread bin for croissants.
One evening Charles and his wife, Pippa, take the bus to a cello recital at Wigmore Hall, thrilled by their Freedom Passes. Declan sees Charles on the top deck and says: “All right?” With no idea who this strange redhead is, Charles averts his eyes and Pippa grips her bag. Declan writes a ballad about the encounter, with the refrain: “No smiles now, Mr Waitrose. And you’re tight, so you are, like corn rows.” His best yet, he thinks.