"And so..." he said, smugly for he was a man full of brass and warm wind, happy to stand in the spotlight.
"And so..." he said. louder this time as he had noticed my attention had drifted to the window.
"AND SO!!" he cried, louder than the first two times.
I looked at him, trying to make my eyes impervious. He'd forced my attention, and I had looked at him but I tried to make my eyes impervious, non-communicative cold concrete marbles glazed slick, slippery that you could not fix a stare of admonishment on.
After all he was only a school-teacher, a policeman, the prime minister, the president of some football club erupting like a volcano while you ride your bicycle on his field. He was none of these and all of these bundled into a small man who knew best, full of brass and warm wind who waited for me to listen to his view on rubbish and litter and personal responsibility, on larrikins and layabouts and slow sure paths to anarchy and who was he to say to me, on only his authority, if I couldn't take my rubbish home to put it in the bags...
