Certainly not my best work, but need to get back into writing somehow.

The cool tranquillity of night had given way to glaring sun and the general bustle of people travelling to work, shouting greetings to their friends, having a jog before I realised I had fallen asleep on this bench and had, presently, awoken. A dull ache in my neck and back told me I had been here for a few hours at least. I opened my eyes but did not move my body. I didn't think I'd be able to sit up for very long, in any case, what with my brain feeling as though it was aching for Britain and all. A group with an unknown number of people stumbled past, mumbling a bit. "Tramp," one of them muttered, to general appreciation. I wondered who they meant.

Bastards.

I shifted my leg ever so slightly. A can of something beautiful dropped to the floor and I sighed. It sounded rather full. I wondered why I hadn't finished that last night. I actually vaguely recalled a very nice young woman sharing a can or three with me while it was still dark and quiet, on this very bench, and her scent, and her sound, and her touch. I can't picture her eyes but I know they were a light brown. The colour of her hair seemed to have slipped my mind but I was sure it fell to her shoulders in soft waves. The more I tried to focus on what she looked like, the clearer everything but her image became. Eventually bit by bit of some part of the previous night fell back into my head, clicking into place like a neuro-puzzle, and still the girl's appearance was foggy. I closed my eyes again, trying harder, trying to allow the memory to fill me up and take me away. There was something delightful, I thought with a stupid smile, about the way she was so interested in me. She asked so many eager questions. What was my age, where was I from. Was I (my smile widened at the thought) here alone. I wasn't too drunk, was I, she hoped, 'cause that would be just dreadful. Did I think she was pretty. Of course I did, silly woman. Pretty boneable.

A few images of her (without her face of course, but then again faces aren't necessary in the majority of the images in question) and myself conjured themselves in my mind's eye. Pretty marvellous. Pretty bloody marvellous. Nothing of the sort happened, of course, what with us being positioned as we so unfortunately were on this very public bench, but she definitely seemed interested enough. Pleased at the conclusion my over-active mind had reached, I decided to let myself drift off again, reaching into my jeans pocket to find my phone and check if I had inputted any new phone numbers the night before or taken any photos worthy of being added to the Bank. I couldn't find it. Oh. I opened my eyes blearily, blinded momentarily once more by the sunlight, and raised my left wrist to eye-level. My watch wasn't there. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus, certainly, but my watch was not there. My poor wrist felt naked as soon as I realised.

I sat upright in a sudden move that caused a huge wave of vertigo to come over me; overwhelmed, I actually held each side of my face until it subsided somewhat. I caught more snatches of conversation from the people around me - "I think I need to fire him, really. I actually, seriously, totally think I should" - and felt like screaming at the world to shut the fuck up. Then I slowly lowered my hands to the pockets of my jeans, feeling for the mobile phone, wallet and keys that were not there. Not there. I've been mugged, I thought. The bird found a way into my pockets while I was trying to find a way into her pants. Un-fucking-believeable.

Too queasy to be worried or angry, I felt I had to settle for mild, politely uninterested concern, as if this was not my own predicament but that of a stranger on the tube. I stifled a yawn and turned to look at the passers-by. "Would you happen to know the time?" I asked to the square at large, voice slightly hoarse. My mouth was dry as an old book.

"Time to get a clue, mate," said a man, rather young by the sound of it, and rather rude. I blinked. Forgot how fucking horrible Londoners are.

"Got ya, cheers," I muttered when no other reply came, and swung my legs over the side of the bench so that I was sitting on it properly and my feet touched the (unsteady) ground. I took a few breaths to try and gather myself. I began to feel slightly annoyed that I didn't have enough change - any change - to buy a shitty coffee or at least a bottle of water. A simply brilliant start to the morning. Or perhaps it was afternoon? I wouldn't bloody know, would I?

My name's Steven Fox, and people call me Steve, Steve-o, or That British Man. Yep.

And despite how frequently it happens, I'm not the biggest fan of waking up in a strange place so I peered around gingerly. It looked like a side road in Soho. Not the worst place to wake up in, really. But seeing as I had almost zero pence to travel with I might as well have woken up in Yorkshire or something.

I lowered my head into my hands, grateful that they at least were somewhat cool. Soho. Not far from Holborn. Not far from Holborn at all. I supposed I should go see my mum or something, now that I was there. Apologise for the lack of birthday cards and forgetting to bring any souvenirs from Japan and the US of A. I feel like such a twat thinking about how poorly I've repaid her kindness in bringing me up since I was little. She must resent me. I wondered how she managed with the shopping bags all this time. I wondered what the number of boys I should have beaten up for breaking my little sister's heart was by now. I wondered if my little brother kept at the boxing lessons or gave up after I went off. Then I sighed. Whatever the right time was to go home again, it probably wasn't now. Timing and me have never seen eye to eye.

And not much else has. Think I'm a bit of a joke sometimes. And looking back on how I was slumped on that bench that day, hanging like no-one's business, without any of the valuables I had the night before on yet another Thursday probably-afternoon next to Soho friggin' Square, I was pretty friggin' hilarious. I felt like I was coming undone. Like I was falling apart at the stitches, or however it went.

Since Paul and Marshall's accident, people left, right and centre have been asking if I'm okay. I usually give them 'that smile' and 'that nod' and tell them I'm getting there.

I'm not getting there. I've never felt so empty.

I stood up and shook my legs a little to loosen them up, kicking away that mostly-full can in the process. Thinking on it now, I feel sorry for the general public because I must have smelled something horrific that day. Right foot forward, left foot forward. Maybe I'll have to borrow someone's mobile and call home, I thought. Walk into that house reeking of sweat and Foster's, still a disappointment to my mum and a shitty role model for her children.

So forward I looked. Right foot, left. A bloke skipped by in terribly pink shoes. A girl to the right definitely had more piercings in her face than years in her life. The wavy hair of a woman a few steps ahead of me caught my eye. Hold up. I walked closer to her and recognised those bright, brown eyes.

Bingo.

"Do you always return to the scene of a crime?" I asked as soon as she was within earshot. "Like to rub it in a bit, do you?" I stifled another yawn, unsuccessfully.

Her expression looked a little uncomfortable, and she gave an equally uncomfortable smile. "I'm sorry," she said in an uncomfortably pleading tone, "I really am. I know how stupid this is gonna sound, I know it's the worst excuse but... I didn't know you were Steve Fox…"

She was pretty, no doubt about it. But not as pretty as I thought she was last night. And nowhere near as interesting. "And you didn't want to deal with the huge consequences there would undoubtedly be if I told the police about it?"

Her face got a little more uncomfortable, and she nodded. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, and uncomfortably held out a Tesco bag, presumably carrying my phone and money.

Nowhere near as classy.

I snatched it from her hand.

"You're a bit nice for a swindler, aren't you."

"My friends saw your driver's license and told me this wasn't a good idea. I didn't wanna have a permanent black eye and neither did they, so we agreed on just giving you everything back and hoping for the best. I really really think -"

But I didn't catch what she really really thought as I walked off, putting my wallet back into my pocket and fishing for my watch. Her voice was pretty high-pitched, and it wasn't doing a lot for my headache.

I slipped my watch back on and my wrist felt normal again. I found out the time was 11:30. Hm. Not quite afternoon, yet not what I'd class as morning. I puzzled over this for a minute or two longer, then mentally shook my head (still hanging too much to physically shake my head) and made myself think of more serious things. I'll sort myself out, I thought. I wanna go home and see the family I grew up with again. I'll find a better outlook on life, learn to listen more, learn to appreciate more, get a decent haircut, stop fucking swearing so fucking much and go home.

I'm quite proud of that little thought, even now. I'm so much more deep than people give me credit for. A girl I tried to chat up called me superficial once, shallow, simple - I'm positive she'd be eating those words if she saw me now. I am not shallow at all.

"Erm... excuse me?"

I looked up and was greeted by two fine human specimens of the female variety staring at me with eager eyes. The one on the right had the most amazing low-cut top. Forget what I said before. I'm shallow as fuck.

"Are you Steve Fox?"

Why yes, yes I am.

And they were about to make my day a whole lot better.