You know something’s gone wrong in your career choices when you wish public transport would take longer. That new bus lane has sped up my journey by ten whole minutes, efficient bastards. Why is the world speeding up when we can’t even get the basics right, like clean renewable energy or an end to poverty. It’s like putting your foot down on the accelerator when your brakes don’t work, crazy. Shit, must be positive, counsellor Grimm drilled that into me at the last session, so on the brighter side I now have ten more minutes each morning to visit Angello’s for my daily caffeine hit.

“Cheers driver.” Nothing, not even a grunt, arsehole. No, stop that, he’s probably just had one of those mornings, he got us here safely that’s the main thing. Heading to the cobbled side street to Angello’s an unkempt fellow with long straggly hair, indistinguishable from his beard, was singing and attempting to play a beaten up acoustic guitar with only four strings. His voice was all right, gravelly like Rod Stewart’s. He was obviously a bloke who’d hit hard times. Orbiting a good arm’s length around him I slingshotted myself up the alley towards Angello’s.

Angello was sat outside fagging it as usual. Apart from having been born in Turkey and spending most of his life in Yorkshire, he is stereotypically Italian. He spent four years growing up there and considers himself to be Italian through and through and any comment to the contrary really offends him. “Merhaba Angello, ‘ow do, can you make us a brew?” He sprang up from his seat looking around frantically “Shut your bloody mouth Phillip, are you trying to get my place burned to the ground?”

“Come on Angello, no one cares that you’re Turkish, people around here love you.” As if to contest that statement Mr Papadopoulos emerged from the Greek restaurant across the street scowling at Angello and sweeping as if every brush stroke was meant to remove Angello from the street, the two locking eyes like bucks locking antlers. Angello had antagonised things though, last week he superglued Papas’ keyhole mechanism so customers had to climb through the window. Angello sat back down and I joined him. 

“Actually Philip I’m worried people will know I’m from up north, people will expect Yorkshire puddings and a dominoes league, I just don’t want that hassle.”

“I like playing dominoes.”

“Me too. Look you’re missing the point, a dominoes night will bring many people expecting pizza, the rest will cover my place in fag ash, I don’t need it Phil.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Might be worth a try, get people in, you’re a bit tucked away up here. Maybe we could just have a game at the weekend to start with.”

“Nadim, get off your fat ass and get Phil’s usual.” The skinny lad jumped, stopped cleaning the tables and dashed inside. Angello flicked his cigarette ash and completely missed the ashtray, undoing Nadim’s good work. “Lazy lad, but makes good coffee. Saturday is good for me, you bring the tiles.”

The scruffy fellow at the bottom of the street had started singing again. “I didn’t realise you’d started open mic mornings, who’s the musician?”

“Pah!” Angello’s cigarette flew out of his mouth and actually into the ashtray for once. “Better sounds have come from my morning rip rap.” Nadim came rushing back with the coffees and another cigarette rolled for Angello.

“His voice was all right, it’s his guitar that’s rubbish.”

“A good man doesn’t blame his tools.”

“It’s got four fucking strings Angello.”

Angello downed his double espresso with his newly lit cig in his mouth. “That’s two more strings than a Dutar.”

“Is that an Italian instrument?”

Angello took a long drag and ignored the question. “If you think he’s so good why don’t you put some mulah where your mouth is and help the guy back on his feet?”

He had a point, I just avoided the man. I’ve got a perfectly good guitar at home gathering dust, he could make better use of it. If he gets famous maybe he’ll write a song about me or give me a mention on Jonathan Ross or something, that would show counsellor Grimm I’m not self centred. 

“Hey, fluff head, didn’t you hear me, I asked if you wanted another for the road.” Angello’s cigarette remains were already scattered on the table and Nadim was cleaning them up.

“Oh, yeah go on then, I’ve no meetings this morning.” Nadim shot inside to get the coffee before Angello could issue the order. 

“I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Help that guy. I’ve got a guitar at home he can have.” Angello’s expression was not so enthused.

“So you’re fucking Simon Cowell now.” Nadim was out with the second round of drinks and sod knows what number of cigarettes for Angello. “You need to help yourself in this world, focus on your own shit. I mean no offense, but you’ve not exactly got your shit together.” Angello’s cigarette was bobbing in his mouth as he spoke, like a wagging finger telling off a child. “Just give the man some change or something, like a normal person would.”

The idea was well rooted in my mind now, tomorrow I will give him that guitar. I downed my latte, left my money on the table and dashed towards work with a new spring in my step. Angello shouted something after me, like “Just some change” or “your change.” As I passed the down and out guitarist I gave him a knowing smile but no change, soon though, but not of the coinage variety.