Baby Driver.

It was a winters day in a deep and dark December. A young folk singer who was on a tour of one-night stands with his suitcase and guitar in hand entered the café on the platform of a railway station in a small northern town. A plump bespectacled middle-aged lady smiled at him from behind the counter.

“Hello chuck, what can I get you?”

“I’d like some hot food, if you have any”.

“Try one of my hot-pots, I’m famous for them”.

“Ok, I will, and a cup of tea please”

He sat down at a table in a corner of the sad deserted café, pulled out his notebook and pen and tried to finish a song to pass the time. Through the window he gazed at the rain-drenched streets and listened to the rain tapping on the roof and walls. He could not finish the song and wondered why he spent his time writing songs he could not believe in, with words that tear and strain to rhyme. He was awoken from this lonesome reverie by the lady bringing his food.

“There you go chuck, get that in you, I hope you enjoy it, we have to try and keep the customer satisfied" she said, glancing at his guitar case.

“You’re a singer I see, I’m a singer myself, and an actress, I’m ‘resting’ at the moment as they say, that’s why I’m working here. I’ve got an audition next week though for Coronation Street”.

“What is that? I’ve never heard of it”, he replied, couched in indifference to the dangling conversation.

“You won’t know it, being an American. It’s like your Peyton Place, only set in a mucky street round here, I’ll be playing a barmaid, if I get the part”.

“Well, good luck with that. Don’t you like working here?”

“No, my boss doesn’t want me to go, he says I am a rock, but I hate it, It's too quiet, I can't bear the sounds of silence, and I’ve had a bad day, one of my neighbours gassed himself. Mrs Riordan told me. She lives upstairs from him. It’s a shame, but he was a most peculiar man"

“I’m sorry about that, I hope your day gets better”

“Thanks chuck, I’ll be homeward bound in an hour, thank god”.

She returned to her duties behind the counter and he began scribbling furiously in his notebook with renewed enthusiasm. Ten minutes later the song was finished. Then he realised that his train was due, and he hurried to the door, stopping to say goodbye to the nice lady.

“It’s been nice to meet you, what’s your name?”

“Nice to meet you as well chuck, you can call me Betty…Betty Driver”

By the time he reached London he had written four new songs. Not a bad day really, for a poet and a one-man band.

PS, Don't take this story too seriously!