Cromer Street. Again. Late afternoon. Quieter today, no racist tramps outside the church, people about their business, walking through the streets, running their shops, kids stalking past in bad imitations of hoods. Before the road ends, a huge scaffolding locked into a tall building. There's work happening here, something's being built. The usual notices are up. SCAFFOLDING ALARMED - I always have a good laugh at that. CAUTION - MEN AT WORK OVERHEAD. That's another one. Something's coming up here, and a closer glance at the billboards tells me what it is. It's a 'creative arts centre', advertising ACTIVITY FOR HEALTH. It's called COSMUR, and the words explore inspire create are emblazoned in a melange of colours - yellow, green, red, orange - on a large piece of cloth pressed tight to the scaffolding.

Down on the street, someone's taking COSMUR's exhortations to heart. Carrying them out.

By the foot of the giant scaffolding is a giant yellow garbage carrier, an ugly barrow heaped with refuse. Bottles, wrappers, half-eaten food, used toilet cleaning fluid containers, discarded clothes - all signatures of the roads walked and trails left by people in the neighbourhood. And here's someone burrowing in their trails, hungrily, eagerly, big-eyed with hope. An old man, in his sixties but older. Short, wheezy, stumping around on rocky legs. A face a few days short of a shave, lips moving to no particular tune, eyes gleaming to no particular light. Black coat spattered with dust, old white shirt open at the neck. A weatherbeaten bicycle leans against the bin, his means of escape. He's licking his lips, peering around the street with hurried breaths as he goes about his work, to make sure no one's checking on him. I, on the other hand, stare rigidly ahead, and steal glances at him whenever I think he's not looking. A strange game of street etiquette we play, he and I.

He's scrabbling around in the bin, sniffing and feeling his way through the garbage. I don't know how good his eyes are, for his hands move over the same objects two or three times. After a while, there's a stifled exclamation of triumph, and he pulls out an old, torn sweater, black and striped with red, I think but can't quite remember. He casts a quick, wheedling glance of triumph at the street, makes sure no one's looking (I turn my back, for that second. Voyeur that I am, I turn back the instant I think I can). He scuttles to his bicycle, mounts it, and totters off back Cromer Street. I turn back, and follow him slowly. The old man, his trophy slung across his hunched shoulders, sways and wheezes his way down the empty street. He passes the church. Passes its big wooden doors. Passes the statue of the crucifix by its side. And moves on. The crucifix remains where it is, locked to its prisoner with his tortured body, his upturned face, and his mangled flesh, silhouetted against the fading light. My co-observer of today's human comedy. Of the entrepreneurship of the very poor. The sign explore create inspire, COSMUR's banner, flutters and cackles in the wind that has suddenly turned fierce, crackles and spits in the day that has suddenly turned very, very cold.

Sweet Jesus, see to it that nothing happens to him on his way back. See to it that he gets home safe. That his rag keeps him warm, unhurt, and alive.