Dawn breaks. The city slowly stirs to life, bringing with it bleary-eyed schoolchildren and sluggish company executives still cherishing their brief weekend respite.
He goes around the car. Gives it a little knock. Gently. Squats down and checks all four tyres. Gets up and walks another one round. Tilts his head. Dusts a little something off the bonnet. Again, carefully. Peers in through the windows. Squats down again. Rubs his chin wistfully. Stands behind the car. Gives it one last, longing look.
Then, apparently satisfied, he picks up his briefcase and walks towards the train station.
I catch him, almost daily while on my way to work, running those various checks on his car. All within that short period as I wait for the lights to turn green.
It is a scene that never fails to tickle me – you probably have to be there to see him do all that, but really – who can fault one guy for being so in love with his car?