smiles on a sunday
"Excuse me, but I've never worked one of these things before in my life..."
He's old, some stubble across a handsome square jaw. Quite a nice suit...and smelling vaguely of piss..
'Here, which one do you want then?'
"Fanta? Do they have fanta? If not, coke... Do I have to say OzzieOzzieOzzieOiOiOi? They told me that everyone here says that. That you dont have to prey to Allah or anything, just say OzzieOzzieOzzieOiOiOi, and everything will be ok."
He's dug he's change out by this stage. I've ascertained that there's no fanta, but he can have a coke. For three dollars sixty. He hands over the change, and I ask him where he's from as I buy his coke for him from the machine, explaining what I'm doing as I go...
He says he's from Scotland, but speaks twenty languages and has lost his accent along the way...
...the accent that, to me, could be anywhere from the Middle East to the South of Europe, and the furthest thing from a Scottish brogue I think I've heard...and he's muttering something about "not being a terrorist, you know".
As his coke drops from the machine, he mirrors my question back at me, correcting my 'Australian' with 'Ozzie. Say Aussie, it sounds better'
His coke in hand now, he thanks me with a grin and tells me he loves me today.
And just before we turn away, he starts.
Says sorry. He didn't even think.
Would I like one too?
And I say no, smiling. And thank him, turning further down the train station.
And straight into a debate about exposure to violent video games verses the censorship of porn in our internet guidelines at the library.
And onto the exploitation of international students.
All the way to Spencer, with my second old and eccentric man for the day...