Malaysia, January 2026

Mrs Luo and I were in Kuala Lumpur visiting one of the kids—we were up by six as usual and had set off towards the KL Tower gardens.

Four people in their twenties staggered out of a bar in front of us—a throbbing bass came and went with the opening and closing of soundproofed doors.

All good, it was almost seven, sun was up, street starting to fill with traffic, ignore them, ignore them.

We just slowed our pace, and followed their reek of alcohol—then he was there.

A derelict—possibly a worker from Bangladesh or India, who’d overstayed his job permit, a growing issue in these parts—sleeping on the street.

Two of the revellers walked past. The third, a girl—dyed-pink hair, artfully ripped fishnet stockings—stopped to yell slurred obscenities at the vagrant. She was either losing her balance or cocking her leg to deliver a kick.

“Uh oh,” I said under my breath. I realised I’d made a fist when my wife clamped her hand over it.

But the girl’s friends turned round and dragged her away, then they flashed open the gate of a posh-looking apartment block.

Before we turned off towards the park, I looked back. The homeless man had drawn his knees up, and was hugging them—he swayed from side to side though no wind blew.