When was the last time you wore one of these?

Today, Monday, I boarded an overground train heading into central London at noon. At that time on a weekday, bicycles are permitted on these trains as far as Finsbury Park. I had mine with me, so I stood near the doors with it rather than sit down on a seat. Looking around, my eyes settled on a tall seated black man. He had a big beard and a flat cap on. He caught my eye and I looked away.

A few stations later he came and stood next to me. I became aware of his outfit. He wore a knee-length black coat with large lapels, a white linen shirt, dark trousers and pointy leather boots that looked like they had walked many miles. I stared at them. Then I noticed he was carrying a thick wooden staff with two short, celtic-like curls of silvery metal wrapped round it, one at knee-height and one at the top, just above waist-height.

My eyes were dragged up to meet his when he asked, "When was the last time you wore one of these?" In his hand he was holding a tie. "A while," I said. "What's your profession?" he asked. "I'm a professional student," I said. "And when you finish that, will you go into a profession which requires you to wear a tie?" I answered that I wasn't sure but it was a definite possibility. "I may have to shave off my beard too," I added. He suggested that a tie is so-called because it ties you to your desk, to the supermarket you visit after work, and then to your home, and then back to your desk again in the morning. I replied that a tie isn't a tie, it's a noose. He smiled at that. "What's your profession?" I asked. "I'm a designer," he said. "I don't wear ties. I just found this one." I asked him the last time he wore a tie. "A while," he said.

"Do you read books?" he asked suddenly. I said yes. "Go into Waterstones and have a look at the Koran sometime," he said. "See what all the fuss is about. Don't rely on what the people tell you."

It suddenly occurred to me that when he looked at me he wasn't seeing a fellow member of a counterculture. He was looking at a white youth who he had caught in the act of staring, and had assumed, correctly, that the thought "black, bearded, possibly muslim...terrorist?" had gone through the mind of that youth.

The next station was mine. I got off the train. "Go safely," he said.