I was strolling through Hyde Park, thinking about a particularly delicious slice of lemon meringue pie I had just eaten, when I observed the rather tousled and acoustic guitar-laden figure of Ralph McTell approaching.
"Let me take you by the hand," he said, with an alarming degree of over-familiarity, "And I'll lead you through the streets of London. I'll show you something to make you change your mind."
"If you're going to show me an oat cake or a chocolate eclair." I told him. "Then you're too late because I've already seen them and my mind decided to go for the lemon meringue instead."
"No, no. I'm going to show you the old man," he explained. "The one outside the seaman's mission."
"Why? Is he some sort of experimental baker or award-winning pastry chef or something like that?" I said.
McTell shook his head vigorously: "Of course not. The old man's unemployed and homeless and he doesn't have any friends."
"Oh I see." I said, without enthusiasm. "So you want me to buy him a chocolate eclair? Don't you think he'd prefer a sandwich or a vegetarian kebab? Perhaps you'd like me to treat the old man to dinner at the Savoy."
"This is getting absolutely nowhere." McTell wailed, swinging his guitar dismissively in my direction before sulkily stalking off towards Speaker's Corner. "You're obviously not the lonely, sensitive sort of person I thought you were."
"Wait a minute, Ralph. I'm sorry." I called after him. "I didn't mean it. You can take me by the hand and lead me to Paddington Station, if you like. I've got a train to catch and I'm not sure how to get there. We can even stop by the closed-down market on the way if you really want to, and you can show me the old girl with dirt in her hair."
But he had already disappeared behind some trees.
