In the supermarket car park br I parked my Kawasaki br 400 ZRX, new and gleaming, br locked it took the key br and turned to go, when br I was accosted by an oldish chap br who praised the bike and we br exchanged some technicalities; br he’d been a dispatch rider br once, and he asked me if he might br look closer at my motorbike. br “You’re very welcome, but I br will have to go now, br for I’m running late”, br I said. Too late now—I wish br I’d given him my time, br not walked away, but stayed to talk, br for a look of disappointment br flashed across his face, ‘crestfallen’ br was the word that came to mind. br I realize now that what he’d really wanted br was a chat, and I had walked away.