The Night of The Iguana - A Short Story

The winds of change blew the confidences of the masses in all different directions.
He huddled snugly into the woollen lapel of his oilskin coat as he trudged his way through the icy Croydon night.
"So this is it." the watchman muttered to himself as he put the kettle half full with water onto the cast iron stove.
His cat, huddled into the far corner, threw a ghastly shadow onto the opposite wall as the flames from the rusty stove cast dancing shadows upon the mouldy brick wall.
Day in and day out, he watched and waited, huddled in front of the stove. His filling and repeated filling of the kettle for his black tea was almost ritualistic. Who could have faulted him, for he was doing this without deviation for almost ten years.
"There is my good girl" he threw a tiny bit of blackbread to the ageing cat in the dark corner. A weak purr reciprocated his good intentions. After all, muffy, the cat that he called adoringly all these years, was his virtual sole companion.