man. Hansel promised himself that if the next sentence out of the old man’s mouth was ‘You’re in Paris’ he would get up and leave. Thankfully it wasn’t.
‘Change isn’t always the best thing. You think it is, at the time, but that’s the way regret starts.’
Hansel found himself intrigued by the old man. Wrinkles sunk below his tired eyes yet he boasted a permanent half smile and his silver hair was tidily combed to one side.
‘I can’t say whatever problems you are having at the moment will soon disappear , but give it time.’
‘Right,’ Hansel groaned, ‘Patience.’ The old man glared at him.
‘No, not patience,’ he croaked, ‘more along the lines of belief. Remember that your path is yours only. And what is a man without a path.’ Hansel knew it wasn’t something he needed to reply to. And he chewed at the inside of his mouth and finished his drink.
The tavern soon fell quiet and the bundle of fans from before had left, most probably moving onto another pub in search of a livelier atmosphere. The old man had swayed across the bar and now sat within an enclosed corner, taking with him a few bottles of beer and the remains of a tattered, yet to date, newspaper. Hansel whipped out his phone and checked the time, not quite sure what to do with himself. Kick off was still a while away. The bartender appeared bored and stooped over the bar, pawing sluggishly at the wood with a wet flannel.
Hansel glanced towards the old man. There was something strangely enticing about him. An aura seemed to present itself, hovering above his stooped form like a musky cloud.
Ah what the hell, Hansel thought.
He edged over and set his backpack down on the chair beneath the table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
The old man peered up from his glass and smiled kindly.
‘Not at all, please, take a seat.’
‘So, you’re looking for a big story?’ The old man guessed, tipping the bottle to his lips.
‘ I’m Sorry?’ Hansel replied.
‘This place you said you’re trying to get to, seeing as you’re a journalist I presume you need some kind of story.’
Hansel retrieved the small black note pad from his bag and placed it on the table, flipping it open to the first page. He raised it to reveal a sequence of squiggles and random phrases.
‘Four years and all I’ve got is a few thousand words on a laptop and a handbook of pointless notes.’ The old man watched him throw the book down and sit back against the cushioned chair.
‘Well what’s it about?’
Hansel felt his eyes begin to roll but fought the temptation. The old man was clearly interested, or so overly drunk that he would commit to any kind of conversation.
‘It’s a period novel, a thriller, romance set within the 1940’s. A young couple find love in the heat of the war.’
Hansel chuckled to himself.
‘Doesn’t sound like a comedy,’ said the old man.
‘No, no,’ Hansel apologised, ‘it’s just – I’ve had that intro rehearsed for about three years.’
‘Sounds good,’ the old man nodded.
‘Nah, I can’t even string together a book full of nonsense.’
‘1942, the year I enlisted in the German military,’ said the old man, thoughtfully.
Hansel leaned forwards.
‘You were in the Wermacht?’
‘You could say that.’
The old man rubbed his neat stubble and Hansel caught sight of his watch, an enchanting silver timepiece with a face of solid white and two slender hands, each styled with a smouldering Prussian blue.
‘That’s a beautiful watch,’ Hansel said.
With a sorrowful glower the old man set his other hand over the watch and then smiled.
‘How many pages are left untouched in that notebook?’
Hansel puffed, flicking through the thin sheets.
‘A few hundred I guess.’
‘Alright,’ the old man croaked, coughing away a bout of brief hiccups.
‘Just before the Second World War, the German military was ripe with betrayal. The German
‘Change isn’t always the best thing. You think it is, at the time, but that’s the way regret starts.’
Hansel found himself intrigued by the old man. Wrinkles sunk below his tired eyes yet he boasted a permanent half smile and his silver hair was tidily combed to one side.
‘I can’t say whatever problems you are having at the moment will soon disappear , but give it time.’
‘Right,’ Hansel groaned, ‘Patience.’ The old man glared at him.
‘No, not patience,’ he croaked, ‘more along the lines of belief. Remember that your path is yours only. And what is a man without a path.’ Hansel knew it wasn’t something he needed to reply to. And he chewed at the inside of his mouth and finished his drink.
The tavern soon fell quiet and the bundle of fans from before had left, most probably moving onto another pub in search of a livelier atmosphere. The old man had swayed across the bar and now sat within an enclosed corner, taking with him a few bottles of beer and the remains of a tattered, yet to date, newspaper. Hansel whipped out his phone and checked the time, not quite sure what to do with himself. Kick off was still a while away. The bartender appeared bored and stooped over the bar, pawing sluggishly at the wood with a wet flannel.
Hansel glanced towards the old man. There was something strangely enticing about him. An aura seemed to present itself, hovering above his stooped form like a musky cloud.
Ah what the hell, Hansel thought.
He edged over and set his backpack down on the chair beneath the table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
The old man peered up from his glass and smiled kindly.
‘Not at all, please, take a seat.’
‘So, you’re looking for a big story?’ The old man guessed, tipping the bottle to his lips.
‘ I’m Sorry?’ Hansel replied.
‘This place you said you’re trying to get to, seeing as you’re a journalist I presume you need some kind of story.’
Hansel retrieved the small black note pad from his bag and placed it on the table, flipping it open to the first page. He raised it to reveal a sequence of squiggles and random phrases.
‘Four years and all I’ve got is a few thousand words on a laptop and a handbook of pointless notes.’ The old man watched him throw the book down and sit back against the cushioned chair.
‘Well what’s it about?’
Hansel felt his eyes begin to roll but fought the temptation. The old man was clearly interested, or so overly drunk that he would commit to any kind of conversation.
‘It’s a period novel, a thriller, romance set within the 1940’s. A young couple find love in the heat of the war.’
Hansel chuckled to himself.
‘Doesn’t sound like a comedy,’ said the old man.
‘No, no,’ Hansel apologised, ‘it’s just – I’ve had that intro rehearsed for about three years.’
‘Sounds good,’ the old man nodded.
‘Nah, I can’t even string together a book full of nonsense.’
‘1942, the year I enlisted in the German military,’ said the old man, thoughtfully.
Hansel leaned forwards.
‘You were in the Wermacht?’
‘You could say that.’
The old man rubbed his neat stubble and Hansel caught sight of his watch, an enchanting silver timepiece with a face of solid white and two slender hands, each styled with a smouldering Prussian blue.
‘That’s a beautiful watch,’ Hansel said.
With a sorrowful glower the old man set his other hand over the watch and then smiled.
‘How many pages are left untouched in that notebook?’
Hansel puffed, flicking through the thin sheets.
‘A few hundred I guess.’
‘Alright,’ the old man croaked, coughing away a bout of brief hiccups.
‘Just before the Second World War, the German military was ripe with betrayal. The German
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