Wednesday, 17 April 2013


In Victoria Wetherspoons as the chimes at midnight approach with a glass of Siberian Red and I watch the people come and go. The crowd is thinning, but there’s still a forelock of drinkers, one of which I notice. He looks lost, he checks his change, he looks flushed, he looks nervous, he looks like he wants to heed people and talk, his plastic bag is faded, his hair is white, his coat is clean, his smile is perplexed, his shoes are shiny, his trousers are gravel dark, his long coat is a gabardine the colour of brawn, he lifts a magnifying glass to the lager font, he’s patting his pockets, he’s got his beer, he’s left the bar, will it be the 00.10 to Ramsgate or the 00.06 to Woking that he wants, he looks at them all on the departure board, the 00.42 to East Croydon it must be then, his tie is fired with stripes of service and then it’s the 01.00 to Brighton that he must be on, but then when I look up again he’s gone and I suspect he’ll be back at the same time tomorrow night.

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