SMELLS OF PISS

‘Am I disturbing you?’ I said to the man wearing a white shirt and tie who’d asked me to move from outside BHS in Broadmead, where I sat sheltered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ve got tills just inside the doors there.’
I looked over to where he pointed. A man stood wearing a green midlength coat, brown trousers and a wool hat pulled down over his ears.
As I packed my rig away, micro cube and loop station easy to carry in a bag for life, mic stand strapped to the back of my guitar case, folding seat to sit on, a man came over.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ he said.
‘Yes, of course I do,’ said his name, ‘from down the road.’
We shook hands and he told me he’d been to Newport this week, played a gig then got out of there as fast as he could.
On my way home I stopped in the northernmost subway out of James Barton roundabout, set up. Played for an hour and a half, inspired by a group of three drinkers were busking with guitar, drum and harmonica.
James Barton's about my level. I’m comfortable performing in an urban setting smells of piss.