It's winter. Sun light slants across my knees. I've a cigarette in my fingers. In this arm chair with my cigarettes and coffee I feel like my father. I smoke with the same gestures as him. I pick my shoes up from next to the chair and put them down in front of me and put them on and tie the laces and thumb a shred of tobacco off my lower lip with the same movements as him.
I sometimes miss the town where I grew up. The funny friendly or prickish people in overalls out of the garages and engineering works for a 12 o'clock dinner hour. A ham barmcake and a beaker of tea or Nescafe or a pint. Mechanic's fingers reading The Sun.