It’s lunchtime.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir of response.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir the second time, either.

He slips out of the office, through the corridor, into the lift, down eight floors to the street, out the revolving doors, three lefts to the park. He purchases a falafel and halloumi wrap from a street vendor.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he announces to the purveyor of chickpea-based fried lunch. It isn’t a nice day, that’s just what people say. The falafel lady looks at him, but doesn’t respond. He takes his meal, picks a chilled can of Fanta Icy Lemon from his knapsack (it’s cheaper in a multipack), and sits alone on a bench in the corner park.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he says to the pigeons. They don’t respond either, but that’s fine, because they are pigeons. The clock strikes 12:05 and the square springs to life again. The five-minute respectful silence is over, and Arthur wishes he hadn’t been such a dick about it.