the mysterious man on the 115 bus in whitechapel. and his notebook.

he looked like a seedy private detective from one of those black and white edgar wallace b-movies from the 1950s. thinning grey hair, a skinny man probably in his mid-fifties. very shabby clothes. he was feverishly looking at the buildings along commercial road - mostly wholesale rag trade shops - and nervously, frenetically, scribbling in this reporter’s notepad. i just happened to be sitting right behind him. his scribbles were just that, to me anyway, meaningless squiggles on the page. but so orderly, so meticulous.

what can it be. it was like he was an alien from another world trying to make sense of a world he couldn’t understand. there are cases in neurology where, after brain damage, the mind cannot comprehend the significations of the surrounding environment. it is seen, but the brain is unable to map it. the landscape utterly undifferentiated. i can see this building. i know what a building is, but the real building in front of me does not signify ‘building’ … or red handbag … or lover’s face. there was another case of a man suffering from acute short-term memory loss, whose only grip on events was to note down the time - to the second - of everything which happened to him so he could later prove to himself that these events had actually taken place. his long-term memory intact, he knew who he was, could recall in minute detail the detritus of his life before the viral illness which had attacked his brain, but everything since vanishes as soon as it passes.

what sort of nightmare is this man living through to go through this charade of mark-making on paper. is he trying to make sense of a world that he doesn’t belong to? perhaps he sees secret signs, codes, messages, behind the street signage; secret communications hidden to the rest of us.

what does it all mean? but isn’t that the question we are all condemned to ask ourselves, even if we believe that ultimately there is no answer.