I was writing this for January's lazy writers homework (biography) but soon realised it was much too big and difficult to complete in time. Still not complete, this is perhaps part 1 of 3 or four. I suppose what I want to know is, would you read more?

There are many reasons why I have a love of books and writing, but if I really had to narrow it down to the most significant reason, I’d say it was all down to John Thompson. Forty odd years my senior, a stranger until I was seventeen, now dead and gone; I miss him.

It seems like a different time altogether now, a different world even; but not so long ago I was only seventeen. Saturday afternoons usually saw me and a few friends in The Coach and Horses, a pub not far from the market place. We chose the Coach and Horses not for its décor or atmosphere, but for the landlord’s willingness to serve us. To be fair, we were all on the cusp of legal drinking age, but all of us carried that aura of green youth and inexperience.

Jez, Ronnie and I were in an upstairs room playing pool. At two o’clock they both had to go and meet girl friends. Left on my own, I decided to go downstairs and sit in the tap room to finish my pint. The only seat left was at a small table where an old man was sitting. I wouldn’t say old now, but at the time sixty seemed ancient. He was dressed in shirt, tie and jacket, but they had all seen better days. Wild grey and thinning hair topped a large head with big hairy ears and nose. Although sat down, I could tell he was tall. I took a seat and we did that thing all men seem able to do: nod and grunt to acknowledge each other’s presence without having to speak. So, we sat drinking and smoking at the same table, but otherwise apart. After a while I became a little uncomfortable as he seemed to be staring at me.

Back in the present my eighteen year old son has very dubious dress sense. Long hair, black baggy jeans with zips and chains and things and scruffy t-shirts are all we ever see him in. I should be grateful he’s had nothing pierced – yet. My wife reminds me that we both wore unusual clothes in our youth, and she’s right. Back in the Coach and Horses, I was wearing a khaki flight jacket. It probably dated back to the 1950s. Painted, drawn and stitched all over it were the names of my favourite bands and bits of their lyrics, and if I’m honest, bands I didn’t like much but completed the image.

‘Just reading your coat,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it. If it’s there, I’ll read it.’

Funny I can remember his first words to me and not his last.

Well that was an ice breaker. We introduced ourselves and got talking, I think it was about Scotland. I’ve never been good at accents but even I could tell he was Scottish. My father was born in Glasgow and raised in Fife and most of my family are dotted around central Scotland. I suppose it gave us something to talk about. He came from Elgin, which is much further north, Scotland’s smallest city, not far from the Moray Firth coast – and then he asked me how old I was. Not wanting to seem like a fool, I told him I was nineteen. I left soon after that to collect my wages from a part time job I had.

I don’t want to come across as a goody two shoes, but I’ve always had a problem with lying. I don’t like doing it and I’m not good at it either. Well after collecting my wages I got to thinking about John and how I had lied to him. At the time I thought it was a strange thing to worry about. He was a stranger I may or may not bump into again, whichever, it didn’t matter – but it did.

I went back to the Coach and Horses with refreshed funds. As soon as I walked into the tap room I saw him. He was talking to another old guy. I bought two pints of bitter and went across, giving one to John and keeping the other. He seemed pleased to see me, and pleased with the pint too. The other guy soon lost interest and wandered off.

‘I lied, sorry. I’m seventeen,’ I told John as soon as we were alone.