The King has lost or forgotten his real name, either way over time it faded like his strength and hair colour while years of exposure to the elements turned him brown and leathery, a suit which has seen better days but never a more careful owner hangs loose on a wiry frame. An old travelling bag, patched into submission thrown over one shoulder with a bedroll hanging below and his worldly possessions within, boots made for walking and longevity before comfort bear witness to the simple truth that a king of the road must walk a hard road without end. Still he maintains a dignified bearing and staunch good humour which has earned him the respect and a good name from the people of Fitzrovia, in his dreams he hears a resonance which reminds him of his true name but upon waking to another bone cold cardboard mattress morning they flit away like the phantoms of well-being.
Other shapes move in the morning gloom, other bums and other reasons for being here apart from safety in numbers and the twilight territory where a bed can be made and the vans that deliver missionaries and past sell by date luxuries. Before losing claim to a space six foot long because the sun has risen to reclaim it for the pedestrians like so much drift wood on another lunar cycle.