It was the smell of leather that hit me first

Old crisp leather

Well used

Beginning to crack around the straps

One of the buckles slightly bent

He shuffled nervously from one foot to another

As he entered the flat

A friend of a friend

His polished black shoes

And well- worn overcoat hanging over his slender frame

Gave him the appearance of a door to door salesman

Or a clerk in an office from 1938

Where all that could be heard was the ticking of a clock

He was quiet self- effacing

But genuine and friendly

We talked about other guitarists

Like Eddie Condon

As he eased out his big old Gibson

And plugged it into a tiny amp

He was a man of his time

A man out of this time

Yet not

With his creaking brown leather bag

And there was him

And it was London in Linzee’s flat

And it was new years eve

And he was crouched over his guitar

His nimble fingers gliding over the strings

It was 1975

It was almost midnight

And this was Jazz