Down on the lift to get a litre of milk for breakfast. At 8 o´clock the lobby is not quite dressed for the day, as the cleaners mop down the floor. The manager and another man are behind the counter and in front of it stands a man wearing shorts and t-shirt and holding a plate of what I take to be his beakfast on raised palm, waiter style. He´s singing, in English, with indeterminate accent and a pretty good baritone. The shy manager has a look somewhere between amusement and embarrassment and I listen, unsure whether my acting as audience is appreciation for serendipitous entertainment or just encouragement for a drunk.
