My school friend’s name walks into a bar: thick, moustachioed, blood pumping through its heart. It orders the weakest lager it can remember pretending to like and sits on a secure seat. The name has lived long enough to have grandchildren and is exaggerating its skill as a goalkeeper to the tired locals. The name talks, but not to me. It does not recognise my chin or the way I laugh half as much as I used to. My right hand is holding a pint of 19 years and the empty chairs around me are filled with ghosts from the outskirts of London, Poland, the old town of Swindon. The walls are 12.30am and my friend’s name looks cold. Its arm hurts, but I can just make out its smile, the size of a tree planted outside a school gate or a double decker bus filled with blissful ignorance. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023