I spotted his right shoe as soon as I entered the underground train at Paddington. I could not tear my eyes from him all the way to Liverpool Street Station, where he got out, as well. He was sitting and I was standing. About fifty, just beginning to gray, he wore a dark pinstriped suit and a raincoat, both of reasonably high quality. For some reason, this surprised me. His face appeared a bit pinched, a bit shrunk, but not entirely unappealing. Wearing rather thick glasses, he read The Times with meticulous care. It seemed he skipped nothing. Carefully polished, his black shoes were on the big side, but his right shoe, which was closer to me, was at least two and maybe even three sizes too big for him. Fascinated by the gap between his heal and the back of the shoe, I envisioned all sorts of things fitting comfortably in there: a pack of cigarettes, a pocket dictionary, a mobile phone… Only when I began scrutinizing his other features I realized he was asymmetrical from head to toe. His right eye was far above his left eye, which was accentuated by the glasses; his left shoulder was considerably lower than the right one; and his hands were quite different in both size and shape. Only then I noticed that his left shoe fit him pretty well. I walked behind him at Liverpool Street Station. He did not limp, as I expected he would, but his walk was peculiar: he swayed from side to side ever so slightly, dragging his feet a bit and waving his hands about him. Seeing him in a crowd, one would perhaps not notice anything unusual. Adjusting for his many asymmetries, he walked like no-one else I have ever seen, but he was nevertheless quite good at it. The asymmetrical man—this evening’s prize.