I was twenty-six when I met him.
I'd been strolling by the Ouse in York- a marvellous early Autumn day in September. The leaves were bronzing, the ducklings were grown and the water was brown.

There's something about that time of year that makes me feel intensely sad whilst reminding me that there are better times to come, the knowing that it's a mirror image of early spring, but with the heartache that comes with winter still to come, a heartache ahead of me that I could not avoid.

But I digress.

There was an early morning mist and I could see him approaching, his tweed slacks were the perfect riposte to the browns and oranges of the season and his tan brogues were the obvious accessory. He carried a hessian two-handled bag, like a doctor in the '50s. What it contained I could only guess, though to put my mind in such a place would be dangerous for a man like me.

As we approached each other on the lonely riverside path a number of thoughts coursed through my mind. Who was he? Why was he here at this time in the morning? What did he want? Horrified, I noticed that his gait had become visibly more purposeful as Scarborough Bridge came into his line of sight.

I felt in my inside pocket for my packet of Rolos, fingered its sweet curve and felt reassurance move through me like a wave.

By now I could make out features- a slightly wonky mouth, sneaky eyes and a roundness to his face that suggested Arbroath Smokies and Scotch pies simultaneously. I froze as he finally reached me.

He stretched out an upper limb, grasped my hand in his.

I looked down at my palm in the hazy morning sunlight.

In my hand were four passport pictures. His leering face shone out, tempting and goading me as I admired his comb over.

The stranger leaned his breast into mine, exhaled with the stench of marmite on his breath and whispered to me:

'Happiness...is a cigar called Hamlet.'

As he moved further down the path I took a moment to let his words sink in.

Their meaning seeped in to my cortex.

I nodded to the virile stranger (though his back was turned), saluted a passing moorhen and made my way home along the foggy, lonely banks of the Ouse.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 12 Mar 2011, 0:14, 2 replies, latest was 15 years ago)

Pfft!
You can have a click for that one.
(berk, Sat 12 Mar 2011, 0:17, Reply)

Fantastic.

( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Sat 12 Mar 2011, 0:18, Reply)