Two corners of Wellesley and Hobson

Just before seven o’clock this morning I was waiting at the pedestrian crossing outside Sky City Theatre when this fellow sauntered up to me and said- Well, I didn’t hear what he said because I had my iPod on.

I took one headphone out and said, “What?” “Did you win,” he enquired. He didn’t look dodgy. He was youngish, a little scraggly, but not dodgy. “What do you mean,” I asked.

“Didn’t you just come from the casino? I’m sure I saw you there.” I was wearing my winter coat, gloves and had a “I just woke up an hour ago, so don’t fuck wit’ me, fool” aura, not a “Whee-hee! I just spent all night at the casino!!!!”

“No, that wasn’t me,” I corrected, whilst simultaneously listened to the Stone Roses in my left ear.

“I’m sure I’ve seen you there. Do you go there all the time?”

I tried to recall the last time I went to the casino. A few months ago I’d taken an accidental shortcut through there after I left the theatre on the way to the carpark. Before that, it was probably 1997 back when the casino was new and novel.

“No, I haven’t been there for ages.” The pedestrian light went green. I started crossing Hobson.

“Are you going to the Albion? I’m not following you. It’s just that I’m going to the Albion too.”

I did not want to join in him his gambling wonderland. I did not want to piss away my wallet in the company of a guy who attempts to pick up strange women at traffic lights at 6.50am. I just wanted to get to work, out of the cold.

“Righto,” I said, heading off down Hobson. He disappeared into the bowels of the Albion.

On the other hand, he might have just been going there for their delicious cooked breakfast buffet.

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