I live in Scotland. The bedrooms at the side of the house look out over the Cellardyke harbour with the front entrance and windows directly onto the road facing the Haven Restaurant.
I stood at the kitchen window looking out; what houses I could see were brightly lit, families together - husbands and sons home from the sea. It was in the days between Christmas, that time of goodwill to all men and the New Year, a time when we usually pledge our good intentions of change. The streets were bare, not a soul to be seen.
Then, in the lee of the wall by the restaurant, a figure moved, slowly and with care, as though to deny he was there, standing cold and hungry at this time of celebration and cheer. It was an old tramp, a Man O' The Road. He had long straggly hair, and a grey beard. His trousers were ripped and patched any old way.
I knocked on my kitchen window. Startled, he stared as though scared. Seemingly ready to take flight, he was caught in the warm glow cast by the fluorescent light as it cut through the darkness.
"Will you have a cup of tea?" I made the universal action of putting a cup to my lips.
He nodded tentatively and smiled. He blinked like a startled owl as the door opened, then he shuffled up the flight of stairs. He halted at the door of the flat as if uncertain how far the welcome extended. I gestured with my arm in the direction of the kitchen. Standing back as he passed the acrid-sour smell of the man struck my nostrils.
In the kitchen his keen glance took in the fact that there was a coffee percolator on the worktop. A hand shot out of the ragged coat sleeve. A grimy finger pointing to indicate - not tea - but coffee was his brew, cup after cup, strong and black.
Potatoes in their jackets (quickly cooked in the microwave oven), one, two, three and four. Sandwiches of lamb, sardines from the can. And cans that disappeared into his long pockets together with a small tin-opener - he had smiled when that was offered.
What a hunger he had! Not just for food of the edible kind, but for crumbs of communication. He smiled again muttering words barely, and not always, understood. Then he left. Moved on. Gone!
The streets were empty and bare! Not a soul to be seen. In the kitchen only the lingering acrid smell, together with the cups and plates, showed that the Christmas visitor had been, and gone.
I stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the bright lights. The streets were empty, desolate and bare!
When you live alone this time of year can feel very empty with people taking a rest after the festivities of Christmas. It is a time when most folk are relaxing at home, with gifts scattered around the room, mince pies, turkey remains, and comatose revelers. Not a time for making an effort to get out of the chair and going through the routine of dressing. Not a time for leaving the warmth of the house to go visiting.
The visit of the old tramp brought a sense of unreality.
I'm struggling for words when perhaps I should leave those written to convey the feelings of special significance in the Christmas visit.
