almost never, and perhaps actually never, are my journalistic chops upto the job of somehow describing cataloguing the things I observe / experience that I want to record here, and I feel this should be especially remembered when reading the following entry. I waited for a bus, not more than a couple of minutes, and of course I " had not been feeling quite right" anyway - is one ever prepared as one would like to be for such altercations, confrontations? - of course. not me, not usually. I had seen the chap before -from a bus, I think, perhaps the same day, quite likely - he had then too been clutching a can of special brew.he had an old scar, what I believe is referred to as a chelsea smile, or something similar.I could not , of course guess his age- late twenties, mid fifties, but I am no good at guessing anyone's age. he asked me for a cigarette which I rolled for him, I knew the bus was due. he spoke to me in what seemed to my insensitive ear, honest, authentic tones. he told me he was an alcoholic and he didn't take drugs (and that he didn't even usually smoke, and after a couple of desperate drags on the roll-up, have it back to me - I imagined how some people might have enjoyed throwing it on the floor instead if continuing to smoke it) and that he was checking into rehab in Prestwich on monday and that he thought he should maybe throw himself under a train or a bus or a car. I said something to the effect of, oh, uh, you probably shouldn't. he asked me for 31 pence (I half regretted giving him 2 pounds - maybe he didn't want or need another can of special brew, that he could now afford.and why did I give him two pound coins, I had three -?) as my bus came and he wished me well or something, shook my hand, kept talking as I stumbled onto the bus, fumbling for my pass.as I sat down I could see him walking along side, oblivious to me, his head / eyes in his hands, crying, for what reason I will not guess.
