He slouched on the pine'n'chrome bench, threw the scalding coffee down his throat, and watched the latte-set scurry by. He'd go into the pub by-and-by, as soon as the buzzing in his head eased. He only went in there, you realise, for the nutritional value of the counter-lunch.
In his squalid forty years on this planet he had seen mighty changes come over this mangled intersection, where the 389 bus had not a chance in hell of manoeuvring the round-a-bout and just ploughed over the top regardless. As a kid he'd lived in a run-down terrace up off Olive Lane. That was before all the arty types invaded the neighbourhood and make it sought-after. This was the time when Five Ways consisted of a pub (The Royal), a church (St George's), a chemist, a milk bar, and even an old cinema which has given way to a fruit & veg market.
He had to go. The smell of the fresh baked sour-dough and the sizzling white-bait was doing his head in.