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A man with one leg sits on the bench beside the bus stop, crutches neatly folded beside him. He sports a rather natty moustache, a crimson blazer, a pale blue, floral-print shirt, round tortoiseshell glasses and a collection of tattoos. The vacant leg of his pale grey trousers is neatly folded across the other thigh as he watches the morning world go by, looking, for all the world, like a Vietnam veteran from an Oliver Stone movie. I admire his serenity.