A forsaken copy of the Racing Post brushed against his size 12 black brogue shoes as it made its way along the final furlong of the poorly lit platform. Rod stubbed the butt of his John Player Black on the paint-blistered arm of the cast iron bench before pulling his burdensome body up. His heavy legs stumbled slightly backwards under his weight. He placed his left hand on the bench and steadied himself before cupping his right hand around his mouth and choking a croaky cough. He caught a smell of his breath which reeked of fresh nicotine and stale Scotch whisky and slid his upper teeth along the top of his tongue squeezing out the last drops of the lingering Black Label. He then turned up the collar of his dark grey trench coat and pulled the front of his black Trimble fedora down over his eyes. The hat balanced precariously on his slowly shaking head, like a lemming on a cliff edge. He shunned his black leather briefcase leaving it abandoned on the cold bench like a Scottish widow and, as the sky above turned darker, he put his hands in his pockets and trundled slowly towards the platform edge, seemingly oblivious to the screeching and squealing sound of the fast-approaching train.