I think, as I tap away about the day, this is the moment I should describe that person in this conversation; tell you what words there were, how they were said.
But I stop myself. I haven't been kind enough to ask, is it okay if I blab on my blog what you said? Maybe you won't mind if I mock it a tiny bit as well?
Or there are people I meet, listen, and I think, that is your story to tell, not mine. It is so personal and true and wise from the heart, it is not for me to say.
There are moments too where I am so pussyfootingly discreet - get me! - that I don't think an old beat up hippie blog is a fair and level place to put another human voice, one who never agreed exposure, to the casual gaze of any curious passer by. (How generous and gracious am I!)
I'm not sure which category this gentleman fits in today. The one in the floppy hat. With the purple feather.
Maybe none of them. Maybe I'm sensitive to the commerce of the voice. This gentleman sells his research, commentary and thoughts on a history tour of Lyme Regis. I'd tell you what he said, because it was fascinating and engaging, but that would rather undermine his work and all his effort.
So I'll have to leave you to imagine the voice of the gentleman in the floppy hat. Even though I'd very much like to say how he spoke with expression, gently and respectfully, carefully and emotionally, as if the Lyme executions from three hundred years ago touched him personally, and as wryly as if that young rascal Henry Fielding could still be spotted on the High Street, looking to snatch the object of his desire, Sarah Andrew.
I'll have to say instead, if you want to hear him tell you stories of how life is, then you must simply go along, book yourself a tour, and listen.
Enigmatic picture, not of a well, simply to make you keen to go and find out.
