He opens the Clery's bag and removes the resoled shoe, then picks up its match from the floor and turns the shoes upside down. The two soles are a completely different colour. The new with its bright tan colour, the old a dark worn grey. After all that trouble. After all that day. In the dim light of the hall he stands at the table before the smug, surly telephone. His reflection hangs above it in a gilt-edged frame. An old man, in a dark mirror. At what point, he wonders, does it become about fear? Fear of being caught talking to yourself, of pissing in your trousers, of pretending to remember a name, a place, a face your once knew well. Fear of getting done over by everyone out there; junkies, taxi men, young felllas, kids. Fear of your own face in the mirror.