The people in the neighbourhood: the social revalidated senior

He usually stands in his doorway while we pass on our way to school. Over the years, I’ve watched him change.

When I first noticed him, he wore loose, comfortable clothes. A medical bag hung at his side. He didn’t seem very mobile, observing the street from his doorstep.

His timing felt deliberate. Early mornings and late afternoons, when schools nearby were starting or finishing and parents passed by with children. We would nod as we walked past.

Months went by. The medical bag disappeared. Later, his clothes became a little more formal — a proper shirt, better trousers — but the habit remained. Still standing in his red doorway, at the top of the three steps leading inside. Still nodding.

For years we passed him like that. He must have watched our boys grow up — from wobbling toddlers to schoolboys with heavy backpacks and loud conversations as they hurried past.

Then, one summer, the boys came home with Jan carrying a large stack of football stickers. He had asked them if they had the supermarket’s collection book. They did.

From that moment on, our walks to and from school came with an ever-growing supply of stickers. Far more than we needed. But no one wanted to say no to this small kindness, and he seemed genuinely pleased to save them for our boys.

We never told him that many of them eventually ended up in the bin.

The sticker season passed. We still nod now and then, but the conversation has dried up again.

Sometimes I spot him near our house, resting against the windowsill of a neighbouring home, a large shopper beside him. He looks as if he’s waiting — for a pause, or for someone to pick him up.

His independence still seems limited.

And so he watches again.