Sammy the Elbow, second (maybe third?) greatest shaman the world has ever seen, once listed all the walks of the city. They went like this:
Tourist amble with bumbag bouncing and gormless face so that people know you wanna get mugged; rush-hour scamper of the tossers in suits who are way too busy to be late and so you’d better get out of their way; lovers’ sidle, hand in hand, the city nothing to them, movement just a way of getting closer together for snogging, yuck; copper’s stride of “I own this so bring it on if you dare”; traffic warden’s prowl, three in a gang, slow down the parking bay, quick to the next target and a cuppa tea; old lady’s waddle and fat man’s stagger, schoolkid’s skip and Mum’s ramble with the heavy buggy; jogger’s pain, late man’s breathless run, early man’s easy lope. Way you walk says everything about you in this city, says who you are, where you’re from, what you’re doing, what you want, what you’ll get. There’s only two walks what are any different from any of these, only two walks what matter for shit.
First one is the shaman’s walk, which moves at the perfect rhythm of the city, not too fast, not too slow, not owning nothing but not scared neither, the walk of them that belong, with nothing more and nothing less than that, them that are a part of something bigger, the walk which you can’t see, because you fools don’t know how to look. Beggar King gets it, knows it’s not just about the way you move, but the way you think, understands how to walk on the surface of the earth and leave no mark beneath your shoes, but then he’s the fucking Beggar King, if he doesn’t get it then what the crap does he think he’s doing wearing a crown?
Only one other walk worth the business, and only one dude gets it. It’s the walk that closes up the gate, it’s the wall that pulls the shadows along behind it, and you spot it by the way the pigeons fly, by the turning of the water in the overflowing grate, by the stretching of the light from the lanterns overhead, and by that tingling at the back of your teeth where all your fillings are starting to hurt. Only one guy does it, but it has been done for a thousand years, and that, you ignorant piece of piss, is the walk of the Midnight Mayor.