Wushlyre

I am walking on a dull and damp (feeling) day, a gentle drizzle falling (in the mind). The colours are muted. A silence falls over everything as I walk over a stone railway bridge, bushes and trees on either side of the line. (It could be my childhood home of Largs, such is the feel of the place.) -

I pass a man who enters the scene from a street to my right. He has a huge dog on a lead that, as he struggles to control it, leaps and bounds, pounding at the pavement/road. I'm quite surprised, not to say scared, by how slender a command he has over it -

I turn off to the same street on the right where another man allows his dog to chew on the boot of a fellow in a high-vis vest who lies struggling in the road. I intervene and the man calls a halt to his dog. The bloke in the vest, visibly shaken, gets to his feet. The man with the dog is of British Asian descent, with an almost creamy sheen to his beautifully smooth light brown skin, close cropped hair, a long, strong chin and small, bright and knowing eyes. By contrast the man who was under attack is jet black with a goatee beard and wide, imploring eyes – I almost get the impression he is apologising, as if I should not have gotten involved -

I look back at the British Asian man, who is slyly amused, smirking at my saying I will report him to the Police. I notice he now has a huge mop of curly hair, here greying, here dark. As I bluster and bumble in the face of his disconcerting indifference – not helped by the distraction of his victim seemingly interjecting on his behalf – I spot he has a car number plate hung about his neck, the letters and numbers on display across his chest. How silly of me to not think of using this to identify him to the authorities -