INT. HEFFERS BOOKSHOP. DAY. BY THE TILL.
An OLD BEARDED MAN (OBM) totters towards a SALES ASSISTANT (SA), who’s standing behind the till. OBM is wearing denim jeans, a tweed jacket, shirt and tie, and a cloth cap. He’s over 80. His beard is silver.
OBM: Jawaarrbaddaoophhhddaclllweoooo?
SA: I don’t know, I’m sorry.
OBM: JAWAARRBADDAOOPHHHDDACLLLWEOOOO?
SA: Sorry, I don’t know. Try Glyn, over there. (Points to information desk)
OBM: Wpadddoogggborrrssa.
OBM wanders towards the information desk, muttering to himself.
GLYN: Can I help?
OBM: Jawaarrbaddaoophhhddaclllweoooo?
OBM: Sorry?
Back at the till.
AVARAGADO (to SA): Don’t worry, he’s harmless.
SA: Yes, we’re used to him. He comes in every Thursday and Saturday.
AVARAGADO: Really?
OBM (in the distance): JAWAARRBADDAOOPHHHDDACLLLWEOOOO?
SA: Yes. For the last thirty years, apparently. He’s always talking about the war or something. Always the same thing.
AVARAGADO: Oh.
SA: Yes. He sometimes asks for a job.
AVARAGADO (thoughtfully): I see.
FADE TO BLACK.
I see the OBM every now and then; he’s almost always having a sit down in the barbers, jabbering away unintelligibly. He’s tolerated by the scissor twiddlers, who sometimes buy him a coke or a packet of crisps. Looks like he tours the city.
I have a strange feeling that I’ve just had a vision of the future…
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