He smelled of soap. That’s the only thing I really remember about him, apart from the music he played on his beaten up guitar. He would stumble through the few songs he knew, strumming broken chords and mumbling the whole time, stops and starts which seemed to make his music alive with more feeling than that of those who had had lessons. As he played, you would lean close without really realising and that clean smell, the generic bathroom soap which never really seemed to stick to anyone else would drift across to you, leave you wanting the feel of his arms around you.
