#Popshot arsenal how toGerald, though silently, is a keen and intelligent observer who, even if he cares to note how others live their lives, how they mix and mingle with little or no effort, remains indifferent to, or perhaps incapable of, knowing how to channel his own life in such directions. Diffident and withdrawn, he clearly wants it that way. No dog, cat, parrot or songbird shares the seclusion of his days no woman or man his nights. His house, at the edge of town, is a privileged refuge and as far as anyone knows, is visited by no one. In silhouette, you see two bags of different sizes, the larger one on legs. He carries his weight in the manner of a penitential cross to which he mystifyingly adds more - namely, a bulky plastic bag crafted in his own image which he hauls with him everywhere. His shape eases into a globe from the neck downwards, all the way to his knees. With some attention, his round and rosy face might even recover a bit of whatever original shine there was to it but, overall, the look is one of plainness, of a sixty-five year old living the reality of preordained drabness, when the man is barely forty-five. It never occurs to the man that money can, even if seldom, be frittered on looking good. Shoes are usually brown, occasionally grey, forever unpolished, strictly 1970s, and worn with cosy woollen socks that are predominantly white. It is as though a dead uncle from those years had left him a full wardrobe so that Gerald need never again visit the shops for something to wear. His dress sense is inspired by charity shops flogging stuff that was trendy a couple of generations ago. Things you’ll notice on a first encounter are that he’s had decent breeding, sticks to conventional values, is pathologically shy and won’t utter a word if he can help it. Gerald is, by all accounts, a dull and dreary wimp. A curiously reclusive co-worker maintains a secret of undefined proportions in Lillian Sciberras’ short story.
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