[Stratford Station.] 

[1999.]

One night,off to the clubs,running late as usual wanting to have left the house a little bit sooner,I arrive at the station needing to buy a ticket:I feed coins fast as my arm will move,wanting to skedaddle to the platform,when,of a sudden,it all goes Sergio Leone in my right ear:a swarthy young man,possibly just murdered someone making his getaway…  

[Spanish Thick]

‘How are you,my friend? I am your friend.Can you help me out,my friend?

 You are my friend,I am your friend,my friend…’

 I don’t say a word,and carry on piling in coins:he’s still there,maybe collecting pennies;I’m 

 not looking at him,but he won’t budge. 

 Things go quiet in my head:I slowly turn and face him silently long enough he gets the  

 message.

‘Oh.’

 He buggers off;I zip to get the train,and think no more of it other than he wasn’t villainous,  

 just pushing his luck,and go to London.

 

 

 

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