'Buffeteering' by Adrian Slatcher

The three of us walked back down Market Street reluctant to split our separate ways but unable to think of a reason to prolong the evening. The septagenuarian flute player is still playing the melody line to 'Money, Money, Money' above a tinny backing track outside Boots on Market Street. Tom and Helen walk off and I stand next to him, unable to move. In my jacket pocket I've a handful of Euros. He nods a thank you. I drop the coins into his open flute-case and hope he doesn't notice I've scammed him. After all, we'll both be back tomorrow.