49
I step inside a greasy spoon full of dockers between shifts.
It's warm, noisy and smells of bacon and eggs. A radio plays pop music. The colour scheme is white tables and green chairs.
There's a pile of coats hung up on a rack as you enter the café. A large, mousy-haired woman behind the counter in a green apron. Forearms like hams. She's a cheerful soul and fixes me up a bacon butty and a cup of tea. I take a seat across from a table where four dock workers demolish a fry up each. They talk in four-letter words. Who beat who in the football. How many pints they sunk at the weekend.
I eat the sandwich. I like my bacon crispy. But it doesn't matter how many times you tell 'em, these gaffs always undercook it. I pull a rubbery piece of fat out of my gob. I sip on my brew. Jesus Christ
