Ginge Reads

It was the perfect spot, really. Under the bridge between the two stations with the little Tesco express tucked into the side. The hustle and bustle of the city couldn’t help but pass by him on the daily, while the heavy redbrick that he leant against kept enough wind off his back. Of course, there was no escaping the chill of a concrete floor, but he’d been out here that long that the numbing sensation to his rear was more of a familiar friend.  Photo by Cory Woodward via Unsplash Armed with a week-old paper cup from Costa, he slowly emerged from his ragged sleeping bag as the arrival of the first train signalled 6:30am. A stranger had given him his makeshift duvet on a particularly bitter day back in November when the rain fell sideways through the bridge. Probably just an old bit of camping equipment that had been sat in the garage for the past 2 years next to the forgotten gold clubs and mouse-nibbled jump cables. Tracksuit hood pulled up over his head, he crossed his l...