walking sticks

On the train this morning I had to begrudgingly move my bag to allow an old man to sit next to me; he was very old and slow, taking a minute or two to lever himself down into the seat. Should I tell him that I'm getting off at the next stop, I wondered, meaning that he will have to do this complex manouvre again almost as soon as he is settled? He finally sat back in his seat, exhausted. I glanced down at his walking stick and saw something which induced a stab of sadness or sympathy, or just melancholy. His stick was labelled with a small printed out sticker, containing his name and address. At the top of the sticker it said 'Mr and Mrs Dawson'.

Except that the man had crossed out the part of the label which said 'and Mrs'.