Simon lived under a bush. He played the saxophone when he came out. He was in the Astoria most nights, trading in his coins for paper. He was just back from Cairo. I thought Simon was great - he'd managed to save up enough for a ticket to Egypt. We're all there, admiring the Palestinian scarf he's wearing.
I see him a couple of days later. He's nursing an Amstel. He's got a bandage round three fingers on his left hand.
'What happened?' I ask.
'Nothing much,' he says. 'We ended up in Babel. Some arsehole wanted my scarf.' He tugs at the tassels round his neck with his good hand. 'As you can see, Andy,' he says. 'He didn't fucking get it.'
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