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Bill scanned the stretch of greenery for an available seat. His eyes fell upon his usual shaded bench but perched on one corner was an old man with a stick. Stubble spread across his face like a disease. He wore a ragged jacket and muddied trainers with gaping holes. Great. The man was homeless and sat on the only available bench. Bill thought about heading back to the office but the thought of being confined in that stuffy room, having to listen to Sue talk about her cat, or listen to Michael moan about every significant person in his life, made him dismiss the idea. Then he considered sitting on the grass but he did not want to risk wrinkling his perfect trousers and he imagined the look on Margaret’s face if, knowing him, he ended up sitting in something unsavoury. So the bench it was.
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