Where do you live?
Standing on the corner of the road were my friends Mike and Chris and James, and a little boy I didn’t know. I pulled up alongside them and wound down the window. ‘You waiting for a taxi home or something?’ quoth I.
‘Yup.’
‘Hop in. I’ll take you. You’re more or less on my way.’
‘Thanks!’
So off we set. First Mike’s place. Little boy still sitting there. Then Chris’s. Little boy still sitting there. Finally James’s. There I am expecting the little boy to get out with someone, but no.
‘Who’s the little boy?’
‘I don’t know,’ quoth James.
Oh gawd! Each of us had assumed that one or more of the others knew who he was.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Blackheath.’
Well, there are Blackheaths all over the place, but none of them anywhere near here, and can I get any more sense out of him than that? Not a chance.
I remember a time when in such circumstances one would have taken him to the nearest police station and let them sort it out, but only a fool would do that nowadays. The only sensible thing to do is to leave him by the side of the road and let someone else find him. But how can you possibly do that?