The Old Roadie.

So yesterday i was passing through Newcastle City train station. A beautiful building were it not surrounded by taxis, double decker buses and drunk people no matter what time of the day it is. I like train stations...and a few metro stations like Tynemouth. Anyway. So there i was. Friday afternoon. I'm on my way out after just departing a train from Doncaster. As i first clock eyes on the exit i notice a man leaning against the wall who i could best describe as looking like the kinda old fella who once roadied for Motorhead and never got over being fired for taking too much drugs so continued to do more and more to try and forget about it in a vicious circle of dispair, regret and nosebleeds. Clad in faded black denim skinny jeans and jacket with Motorhead patch, boots, biker t-shirt and slicked back black hair. Long and curly and as slicked back as possible. Sunglasses sticking out of one jean pocket (its October and raining) and an eagle bandanna poking out of the other. A timeless look.

As i approach 20 yards or so from the old roadie he lets out a couple of sneezes that sounded abit like a waterballoon hitting a wall. There's a pause. He studies the palms of his hands for a moment. Then without another moment of hesitation, proudly ran his hands through his already shiny hair and then with a flick of his fingers, pushed off from the wall, spun on his heel and walked in to WHSmiths as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened. But something very out of the ordinary had just happened.

I scanned the faces of the people within eye sight of the man. No one else seemed to see. Maybe they were as stunned as i and chose to pretend it never happened, a tactic i thought of employing. I don't break stride and continue toward the exit looking around for someone to share that moment with but leave disappointed. Until now. Thank you for reading. Though i should point out...this didn't actually happen.