He dislikes lying to matron. She is, after all, a decent enough person. But if he told her the truth, she would never let him come here. Not that she knows where he really goes. If she knew the truth, she would probably force him to join in more of the activities at the nursing home. He thinks activities a strange choice of word when the home has neither gym, snooker table or football pitch. It only really has a dimly-lit television lounge, a large, light sitting room filled with green high-backed chairs and another activities area with card tables and board games. Bill spends his time meandering between these three rooms in the daytime, sitting for a while, watching and listening, before he moves on. He does this every day unless the weather is fine. Then, if it is warm enough, he likes to sit on a bench in the garden. He chooses one halfway across the lawn under some birch trees. He sits and listens to the sound of the leaves rustling overhead and the wood pigeon's occasional plaintive call.

He used to like Sundays, the main day for visitors at the home. Not that anyone ever visits him. His friends are either too frail to travel or gone now. He has no children of his own, only nieces and nephews. They send cards at Christmas and on his birthday but they don't visit. He used to hover nearby when others had visitors, surreptitiously sharing in their conversation and family. That was until one of the families complained and he was told not to bother people any more. That had annoyed him. The way the woman described him had made him sound like a stalker. It's not as if he'd been doing any harm. All he wanted was to silently participate in life.

    He suffers the odd game of draughts or chess with one of his fellow inmates, listening to their wheezing chest, whistling nose or slapping jaws. He dreads an invite to the TV room, as it means enduring the soaps or talk shows that dominate programming schedules. He can never follow one or understand what compels people to either take part or watch the other. Despite the constant noises around him, of television, nursing staff, coughs, moans and clicking joints, he sometimes finds the silence of his world suffocating. He is one of the younger ones in the home, although there are precious few of them. Even if he deigns to speak to them, they invariably let him down. Spoiling everything by repeating their sentences three times over, or believing him to be their son, or by being so deaf that he finds himself shouting his thoughts to the whole home.

    He dislikes Sundays in the nursing home. In order to avoid them, he has to lie to matron. He doesn't like doing it but justifies it for the sake of his own sanity. Every last Sunday of the month, he visits his old friend Jim Harris in the seaside town where they used to live. Jim is in a nursing home there but is too frail to travel to see Bill. That's what he tells matron anyway. So she allows him a day pass once a month and he gets the train to the seaside on his own. To see Jim. He enjoys those visits but is finding them harder. His body aches for a week now after making the trip. It never used to last so long. He wonders how long he can continue his jaunts.

    When his train pulls in at the station, he opens the door and stands for a moment on the step, inhaling the salt air and smell of grease from the chip shop. He can do this because he is old. Those behind him expect him to take his time getting off the train. Those getting on wait awkwardly, not knowing whether or not to help him off. He walks towards the esplanade and sits for a while on a bench, watching the waves falling and rising. If the weather is bad, he does not stop at the bench but walks on past the arcades and gift shops until he reaches the bright green and orange canopy. He opens the door and walks into the chatter of the restaurant.

    The head waiter recognises him but does not know his name. Bill has never volunteered it. He thought about it but decided that it brought with it too many questions. So, instead the Head Waiter talks football or weather, as he leads him to his usual table in the back of the restaurant. He sits down facing the door, looking out onto the seafront beyond. To his right is the bar and to the left the kitchens. He knows the menu verbatim but he and the Head Waiter go through the ritual of him studying it each time. He sucks on a bread stick, as he considers the choices. He reads the Italian first, pronouncing it perfectly in his head, then savours the description in English underneath. Every time the kitchen door opens, he raises his head and his eyes follow the tray to its waiting table. He watches the faces as they claim their dinners and smiles. His eyes linger at the table for a while before returning to his menu or being drawn back to the kitchen door to follow another tray.

    It is busy today and he eats even more slowly than usual. He chews each mouthful, putting his spoon and fork down in his bowl while he does so. He hears laughter and the crack of one of those tiresome party poppers: he guesses they are a party of office workers from their court shoes, black or navy skirts and soft pastel blouses. He is distracted by a squeal of delight as sundae glasses of multi-coloured ice-cream sail towards another party, a family this time. One of the ices has a sparkler in it for the birthday girl; she must be the one with flushed cheeks cowering in the middle of the table. To his right, he can hear a father rasping commands to a child, sit up, finish your pizza, stop banging the table leg, or we leave right now and go home. A line or two of 'O sole mio' rises in a crescendo from a party of young men by the window, and he sees the waiter collecting glasses from their table, smiling patiently and bowing his head when they finish, before moving off towards the bar.

    In the other front window sit a young couple: she has long blonde hair that she flicks over her shoulders while she talks; her skin is pale and young and squeezed into a one-shouldered black floaty top; he sits forward awkwardly in a stiff grey shirt and scuffs his feet while he talks. Bill strains to catch their conversation but he is too far away and they are whispering to each other. The first date in a proper restaurant, Bill thinks. Her nervous giggle ripples through the restaurant and his embarrassed cough gives them away as the children they still are. The speakers hanging from the ceiling play Eros Ramazotti but there is a tinny blast from the kitchen radio when the door opens. Bill recognises the Classic FM jingle.

Bill orders an espresso at the end of his meal, although he knows he will pay for it later. He has had such a good evening of people-watching that he feels like rebelling. There will be another month of insipid tea when he gets back to the home. He thinks he deserves a treat. He pockets the mints for the train ride home. The coffee is sharp and hot, so he lets it cool off, as he watches the parties break up and tables clear. Jim would like it here, he thinks to himself. He realises that he has hardly given poor old Jim a thought this evening. But this would be Jim's kind of place, he is sure. That is, if Jim actually existed.