I asked for a banana tree and they gave me a piece of metal...

I have a cold and I am feeling very sorry for myself. I must be ill because I had a few hours off this morning and even though the surf looked clean and the tide was right, I didn't go. I thought that was very grown up of me.

Because of the aforementioned illness I am fobbing you off with a previously written piece of creative writing. I do have an idea for my next blog but currently I'm too busy wallowing in self pity to write it...

Doc

He emptied another sugar sachet into his coffee, adding the empty packet to the pile on the table and stirring it with his little plastic spoon. He settled back into his seat and swung his bad leg out in front of him. The people who worked in the market assumed it was fake, but it wasn’t fake, just stiff with age. Doc didn’t feel the need to correct them, he liked the sympathy.

He knew of a rumour going round that he had lost his leg in the Falklands. Doc liked that. He further stoked the embers by wearing war medals which he had picked up in a second hand shop in Brighton. If people came close enough to read them they would realise they represented an impossible mix of dates, but no one ever came that close. Even when the market was at its busiest, everyone always gave Doc an amiable but wide berth. But, the way he saw it, he never claimed they were his, so he wasn’t lying. He can’t help what people assume.

He sneaked a look to the girls behind the counter before tearing off a small strip from the bottom of the menu to make a roach. If you looked at the menus in this cafe, you’d see that most of them are missing at least a half inch off the bottom. Doc had to be sly about it now because Janet kept catching him and telling him off. Honestly, scolding a war vet, what is the world coming to?

Doc hacked out a cough before easing himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his decorated walking stick. He limped past the bakery and out through the automatic doors, favouring his good leg. He needn’t worry about his seat, everyone knows that’s ‘Doc’s seat’. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his lighter, singeing his stained moustache as he lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and idly picked the dirt out of his nails. Yellowed fingers, too many cigarettes.