Don't I Know You from Somewhere?

He was wearing a shapeless, colourless pullover adorned with the insigne of some forgotten martial arts society, and a rough blazer about three sizes too large. On his feet were a pair of lace-up plimsolls that would have been well on the way to turning brown if they hadn’t been that colour to start with. His flat-footed gait had caused the shoes to collapse inwards, so that they resembled the heads of twin Dobermans, inclined in a pose of symmetrical pathos. He held out a pale hand florid with eczema; I grasped it and shook, silently reassuring myself that the condition was not communicable.