I couldn’t go into the rooms I had rented because I had locked the key in there.

There was a lady who owned the florists downstairs who had a key but she was not open this early. She had a round face and always sang Danny Boy because I was Irish, but the flowers were garish and I had no pride in where I was from.

The train station was a street away. I walked past the rubbish skips and sat on a bench. Screens said many things about times and places but I had no money and didn’t give a fuck about Birmingham or Norwich.

People swept up things and dust and I pulled my denim jacket around me and looked at some old people who were arguing about time. The old man seemed like a bully who used his nose to make points, and I decided to hurt him if he made any more claims. Their train arrived and I saw them board. They sat in a window near me and he wasn’t talking anymore. He had lost.

Two women with holes in their arms asked me if I wanted business. I told them I had no head for math. They walked off saying “Thick Scottish Bastard”. I liked that. I was a spy assuming nationalities and their geography was the reason they put the holes in their arms. Bad smells sometimes came from the toilets but it was colder to sit by the main doors. A man carrying some type of handbag sat down next to me and asked about the ten AM to Manchester. I told him he had all the information he needed in that question. He left.

The trains had an oily stink and I wondered if the florist lady had opened her shop.

Too early. It was always too early or too late.

I was twenty-two and I did not like Liverpool.