The street lights that lined the pathway barely cast a dim glow as I ran, endeavouring to seek sanctuary under the bus shelter, away from the powerful force of the icy wind. The wind was so strong, it made the branches of the trees dance wildly, like puppets on a string, the old boughs creaking in protest.

The immediate area surrounding the bus shelter was littered with trampled cigarette buts, crushed cans of beer and the odd bottle containing the more concentrated substances, such as whisky. I collapsed gratefully on the metallic bench. It was cold.

A plastic bag caught on the barbed wire fence, that surrounded the high rise commission flats, rustled noisily and irritably. It was just as annoying as having an insect buzzing around your ear.

Rising from the bench, I jumped making a grab for the plastic bag, tearing it loose in absolute annoyance. The eerie silence though which followed, with exception to the frolicking of the wind in the trees, was considerably worse.

I had at the least, a good twenty-five minute wait before the bus was due. At this time of the night, the buses usually pass at thirty minute intervals. It would be a long wait. There was hardly any traffic, just the odd car whizzing past and no one in their right mind would be out braving the elements. Not if it was unavoidable.

It was too dark to read the novel I had brought that afternoon from a small second hand book store. I had rescued the hard cover book, with its shabby, dog eared, yellowing pages from the bargain bin marked $5 and under. The perfect company for a night like this, that is, if you are at home snuggled comfortably under your doona, warm and content.

A strange sight caught my attention in the distance. The figure of a man drew closer. I watched intently. You couldn't see his face it seemed as if it was bowed low, resting on his chest. He battled, struggling with each step. I gathered, therefore, that perhaps he was an old man by the way he staggered about, the wind pushing him around like a bully. Poor, poor man. I felt like taking him by the arm and guiding him to the bus shelter where he could recover and rest awhile. Anyway what was he doing out in such weather, at such an hour?

Yet as he drew closer it was quite evident though, that the man wasn't as advanced in years as I had thought. His struggle wasn't against the wind, but in maintaining his balance, for the man was drunk.

He clutched a bottle encased in a brown paper bag close to his body. He stopped to guzzle down whatever it was he was drinking, wiping his mouth on his sleeve once he had finished.

As he approached, yet a few metres away, you could tell by the way he was dressed, his body loosely clad with an old coat shiny with wear, his dishevelled appearance, unshaven face, that the man had seen better days. I turned away, I didn't want to be caught staring. I deliberately turned my gaze to the ground, not knowing where else to look as he came and sat next to me. I shuffled me feet uncomfortably, but I kept my attention on the ground.

He didn't seem the merry drunk type, instead he was very quiet and didn't utter a syllable, though he looked as if he spent most of his time below the fine line drawn between sober and drunk. I watched out of the corner of my eye, as he placed his tatty old knapsack which had more patches than a patchwork quilt on the bench. Taking another long swig of booze he groaned looking at his empty bottle in disgust. He placed the depleted bottle at his feet.

He looked like he was about ready to settle down for the night, right then and there, except for the fact that I shared half the bench. No it couldn't be feasible, he's merely waiting for the bus as I am. Anyway, unless one was totally bereft of all intelligence, one wouldn't spend a night sleeping on a cold, uncomfortable, metallic bench, in the freezing cold wearing what he was. Surely he had somewhere to go. Yeah, of course he did.

The bus came. I almost missed it. I got up and went to board the bus. I quickly turned around pretending to see if I had left anything behind. I really wanted to check if he was following me, so he could also board the bus. He wasn't. He just sat there, hadn't moved a muscle. The bus driver waved me on through, even though I hadn't presented him with any bus ticket. As the bus moved away from the curb, I stole another quick look at the man on the bench. This confirmed my fears he was planning to spend the night there. He was lying down using his knapsack as a pillow.

Many questions entered my mind. What made someone at his age sink so low, to such depths of despair and utter hopelessness? Was it monetary problems, or perhaps family problems? Who's to know? I wished then that I had said something, anything, even a comment about the weather.

What sheltered lives many of us live.