A Potato

I saw this guy walking toward me. He was wearing pinstripe trousers with black socks. I could tell he had black socks because they were pulled up and the trousers weren't long enough to cover them. His gait was jovial and free, yet purposeful. He didn't swing an umbrella, although he could have done so if he had carried one. His blazer was covering his scruffy jumper. One button remained on his jacket - pulled tight around his waist. He had a gaunt inquisitive face, with thin hair on top of his head. His hair wasn't really intentional - it just happened to be growing out of his head.

As we were approaching each other, his eye suddenly noticed a single potato lying on the pavement. Everything around him vanished, except for that one perfect still potato, resting on the ground. He carefully picked it up, inspected it, and slipped it into the pocket of his blazer.

This is in London.