Then one cold winter evening, I stopped to watch an 80-year-old man, about 5ft in height and with a wiry frame, as he stood on the side of the pedestrian path in the city centre and put on a performance like no other. Let's call him Elvis. There were just two other people watching, as Elvis the busker strummed his toy guitar -- which had a plastic keyboard with his right hand -- and sang in a high-pitched monotone something that sounded like this, "Oh yeah, oh yeah, old man, gooood guyyy....yeah yeah...oh yeah." His thin neck was raised towards the sky and his effort at being a street artist was touching in its sincerity. There were hardly any coins on the cloth he had stretched out on the ground in front of him. But Elvis didn't seem to mind. He just kept on singing till the orange-hued dusk gave way to an electric glow and the milling crowds thinned to reveal imposing buildings with long shadows. I left soon after but always looked for Elvis on the same spot each time I went by.