Smile after smile comes to him as he punches messages into his phone:
Laden with gifts and wrapping paper, he leans upon the handle of his trolley that no doubt holds more charging leads than paper.
His hair is died a glossy black and the cut he wears suggests some pricy label sticking from the silky lining of his suit.
He sports a matching shirt and tie and a coat of camel hair. Polished leather sweeps him swiftly out the door as the tram hisses to a halt.
Off he floats, trolley stuttering in his wake, trooping a flag of coloured paper, towards the source of such easy smile, I hope.