A little old man regularly takes the train two stations down the line to check the past use-by sale bins at the local supermarket. His wizened face is the colour and texture of a dried fig, he always has a rollie sticking out of his mouth, and his dusty black baseball cap is on backwards. Over the year, he’s given me a number out-of-date yoghurts and mars bars. Alas his heavy Greek accent is almost incomprehensible to me. I know the conversation always starts with the weather but then??? After a few minutes of him talking and me nodding and smiling, he pulls a wry face as if he’s told me the punch line of a joke (maybe he has) and darts quickly off as if avoiding a scolding. He sometimes leaves little piles of bread and noodles for the birds. What I don’t understand is why he doesn’t take the noodles out of the packets.