- "WHY HAVE bread when you can have cake?"

This isn't the first time he asked this. Or the second, or even the fifth. He's asked me the same question so many times I've stopped counting. And each time he says it, he pronounces it exactly the same: flat, kind of sneering. This is one of those odd situations, I think.

The first time he asks, it all appears pretty normal, although I don't know him. I'd just sat on a bench. Any old bench in the park. I sat down at the other end of the bench to eat my lunch. And then I feel him looking at me.

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" he says, just as I'm biting into my sandwich. I look at him whilst I finish my first mouthful. I chew it all up with my mouth closed, just like my wife tells me to do, and then I reply:

- "Um. I like bread. I think."

- "Yes. But." he says, "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

I'm defensive now. "I prefer bread to cake." I say, unsure of whether I really did.

- "No," he shouts, glaring at me. "Don't be stupid." And then he reverts to that voice, "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

Is this some sort of game, I think, wishing I'd sat on any old other bench. Okay, I can play. I want to eat my sandwich, but I'll play.

- "I just prefer bread on my sandwiches. I've heard that ham, mustard and lettuce don't go too well with cake. Unless of course it's rich chocolate cake with ginger cream." I say. That'll do it.

But it doesn't register with him at all. And as I'm about to take another bite from my sandwich, he repeats his question,

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" I really just want to eat my lunch. Fuck etiquette, I think, and take the biggest mouthful possible. And then I open my mouth and say, through the chewed up bolus of food,

- "What sort of cake is it?"

This is a new tactic. I'll try to ease off the pressure. Put the ball in his court, so I can calm down. So I can eat my lunch.

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" he says again. Oh god. What does he mean? And then he says it again: "Why have bread when you can have cake?" I think I'm going to twat him one. And then that's it; I go numb, and he just carries on saying it over and over again: "Why have bread when you can have cake? Why have bread when you can have cake? Why have bread when you can have cake?" I'm losing it; I don't understand at all. Is he mad? Maybe I'm going mad. Perhaps he knows something I don't. Why is he saying it to me?

- "Please tell me what you mean." I plead with him. I even put my sandwiches down and move towards him on the bench. "Please." But he just carries on. I'm nervous now. My hand reaches around to squeeze the back of my neck, and then comes back to check my face. I need help.

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" he asks again.

- "You're right," I say. "Look, I've left them on the bench. No, better still, I'll chuck them in the bin." I do it and sit back down on the bench. "Now we can have cake." But it doesn't seem as if he has any cake. I look away to see a tramp find my sandwiches in the bin, take them out, and walk off down the path.

- "Look." I shout at the man on the bench. "He's got them. That tramp. Go and ask him your question."

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" he replies.

I feel sick now. I don't know how to talk to this guy. He's got me. "I don't understand," I say, feeling humble. He stops and looks up at me:

- "It's simple," he says. "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

I definitely need help. And I notice we're not alone in the park. I beckon someone over, a young man in a rainbow sweater.

- "Listen," I say, and point to the man on the bench next to me.

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" my acquaintance says obligingly.

- "Yeh cool man," says the man in the rainbow sweater. "Power to the people." As he walks off I hear him chuckle; "Why have bread when you can have cake?" he mutters.

So I get someone else over: a teenage girl, all dressed up.

- "Listen," I say as she walks towards me.

- "Fuck off you dirty perv," she hisses, and hurries down the path.

And then I call over a child, wandering along behind his mother and her new baby in the pram.

- "Listen," I ask him. Again the man says:

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

- "When I was four, my daddy said I would grow up to be as tall as the trees," the child replies.

It goes on like this for the rest of my lunch break, a stream of people treated to that one question:

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

- "Good question," says one old lady.

- "Absolutely," says another. And as they walk off I can hear them discussing "rock cakes and the like."

A young business woman, mobile phone to ear, passes by.

- "Excuse me." I say.

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?" the man says.

- "Perfect darling. meet you there at eight. Don't be late. Ciao." And she carries on walking.

- "Cake's the best," says one.

- "The cake might be mouldy," says another.

- "Eat whatever you like." And so on.

Nobody stays to talk more. Or to hear the man say again:

- "Why have bread when you can have cake?"

But eventually, a strange looking man with shaggy hair and a long black overcoat sits down on the bench between us. He's carrying a box. The man turns to the stranger. But he doesn't ask him that question. Instead, he asks:

- "What's in the box?" And so the stranger opens it. We all peer into the box, and then I look up slowly at the man on the other end of the bench, and he gapes back.

- "That's weird." I say.

- "I agree," he replies, and we both immediately stand up and leave. As we walk away, the man with the box remains sitting on the bench.

Benjamin Symes