He stands there, a Pep Guardiola doppelgänger—if Pep had not seen better days. Slightly dishevelled, thinner, with a nervous twitch that whispers of a thousand secret battles fought with the bottle. His fingers fumble through loose change, each coin a silent confession. Around him, the world rushes by, oblivious to the storm inside him. I watch, caught between curiosity and sympathy. He looks broken.

I order a tea. The server pours it fast into a flimsy cardboard cup, the tea bag bobbing on the surface. “Say when,” he says, tipping in the milk. “When,” I reply. Our eyes meet—just for a flash—and in that brief exchange, something like a sigh echoes in the space between us, a shared moment of unspoken understanding.

Stepping away from the trailer, I clutch the cup tight and settle beside an aluminum-framed chair and its matching table. I place my tea down, along with my phone.

It’s been 22 years since I first landed in Bristol. This spot, just outside the Watershed, has always been my unofficial lookout—a small tea and coffee trailer that serves a wicked banana and chocolate crepe if you’re lucky enough to catch it.

Perfect for people-watching. A theatre of life playing out in real time, if only you looked up from your screens.

Groups of kids swarm by, trading insults I barely understand. Behind the bravado, one quiet kid lurks—awkward, shy, desperate for a place to belong. Seagulls swoop, crying out for crumbs. A wasp buzzes, menacing. Nearby, a man in a worn leather biker jacket stretches out, dragging deep on his cigarette, smoke curling around him like a lazy ghost.

The pedestrian crossing beeps, and a wave of new faces washes past. A young woman in her early twenties halts, fingers running through her long hair. She tilts her head just so, puckers her lips like a fish, snaps a selfie, and moves on—already lost in her own digital world.

The Pep Guardiola lookalike edges closer, scavenging discarded cigarette butts like they’re treasure.

My phone buzzes—a prompt to upgrade to the latest iPhone. I take a slow sip of tea, eyes drifting upward to the Weathervane spinning lazily overhead.

And then—just like that—he’s gone.