Lining up near empty packets of tobacco with his small bottle of beer – so that they are all balanced, they must be straight, no disymmetry.

Azul blue eyes, barely seen through the mop of Mick Jagger hair.  Kind glances despite the defence of his furrowed and often cutting brow.

The flick of his zippo, lighting a miniscule dimp, never wasting – a sustenance of almost pious clarity in every tightly rolled creation.

Neatly tailored piles of modern classics silhouette a butterfly-stickered TV.  Pinks, blushes, baby blues – I tried to match him with his pastels.

His dainty little ginger and white stripy stray.  She perches happily on the sofa next to him as he leans forward to be near the ashtray.