Saturday afternoon in a Nordic town, buses are neatly parked and as diesel fume slowly dissipates, a few snowflakes fall; streetlights are on soon it will be dark the air is cold and damp; rats are up from sewers eating leftovers. Four men sit on a park-bench they have been sharing a bottle of booze, they have nowhere to go but to their 'Blue Cross' lodgings, get a bed, and a bit to eat; Sunday, with everything shut, will be a long day.
They count the change between them not enough to buy a bottle from the man who sells booze after hour to double the price, they stop a lone, young man, ask him for some money, he gives them what they need, glad they didn't ask for his wallet. They have a bottle, the intention is to save it for tomorrow, but by the time they reach their lodging the bottle is empty and they are drunk, the receptionist will not let them in.
They blame each other, fight breaks out, police comes Black Maria and the drunk cells. Sunday, the four are booked, fingerprinted and let out. The church, across the park is warm, there might even be a few pence to be had from worshippers, they try to look middleclass, but are stopped by the verger; told to come back next day. Four men on a park-bench, they are thirsty, but not lonely and that is a good thing to know.
