If Godot ever materialised, this is how he'd look. A tall, gaunt, ashen-faced man with the wispiest hair and a 19th century Scouse accent - metaphysics hidden behind workaday tones.
So tall that when sat down his body folds elegantly into place as he drags on an old fag end, which even at this time of the morning constitutes probably the fifth or so of its kind.
I 'ate fruit.
I hear him before I see him (although I know he'll be there, sorting out the produce). This morning his cough rattles, the sputum of which he attempts to force up through short but loud choking noises. It works, for he spits the offending matter out right by his side as he continues to enjoy his tobacco breakfast.
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