In search of bedding

As far as any of my fellow-residents are aware, the occupant of the flat with the tiny patch of outdoor space lives and works in The City. His place here is just his out-of-town getaway. On Saturday the door from his flat to his garden was open, suggesting that he was here, although he was not in his garden. I knocked on his door and was unsurprised that it received no response, which is why I wrote him a note and left it in his mail slot by the main entrance.
On Sunday his garden door was closed and the note had been removed, which suggested to me that he had returned to London taking my note with him. But of course if he is in London he is not in a position to offer me a cup of compost.

Inspired by ceridwen's suggestion that I go scrabbling in a public flower-bed should my neighbour fail to provide me with any potting material, this is what happened next;
In fact there are no public flower beds in Chatham, there are pansies in baskets 4m up lamp-posts in Rochester and there are expanses of public grass in Chatham through which clumps of bulbs appear in Spring, but nowhere is there soft dark compost, and even if there were, I would not go scrabbling in it for fear of arrest or cat-shit.
So I toured around in case I might find anything I could buy or beg. There is a Thai restaurant in Rochester which normally has a large floral display outside in a carved wooden boat. The plants had gone and some soil remained but there was nobody around to ask so I continued on my way. The hardware shop was selling little plants in pots so I asked if they happened to have an open sack somewhere. No they hadn't so off I went.
Finally, the restaurant which reimagined itself as a grocery store the moment lockdown was announced looked hopeful. They have some decent olive trees in massive pots out front, but even better, those pots sit in huge wooden boxes, also with plenty of compost in them, presumably to deter thieves and to make it easier to rig up pretty outdoor lighting.
I asked, they were reluctant.
I begged, they said the boss would be back on Tuesday.
I lied, I told them my plant would be dead by Tuesday.
They relented and let me have what I needed at no charge. I worked out later that what I had taken had a street value of about 15p. On my way home I collected a few pebbles to put into the base of the pot for better drainage, as you do. I didn't photograph the shop yesterday because my hands were filthy with compost.
Instead I took this image of the restaurant-cum-grocery-shop with potted olive trees outside on my way into work this morning. A couple of hours later I cycled back past it to collect my replacement bank card from the local branch. Then straight back to work and later, home again. I have cycled about 13 miles today and am feeling quite pooped.