My Blue Rucksack.

I'm not hugely keen on routine, which is probably why I'm happiest when I'm constantly on the move.

But now that I'm living in my parent's rural home, and working in the rural city of Inverness, routines are naturally fallen into. For five days a week I snatch the same bus from the end of the lane. For five days a week I carry my uniform in the same blue rucksack, buy the same newspaper and get the same coffee at Costa.

I know for fact that the baristas know who I am now. So friendless I am up here, when I first started going in I took their empty greetings as general enquiries: "how are you getting on?" "oh, not bad, just handing out CVs, know of any jobs going?". The following day played out similarly: "how are you today, sir?" "oh, not bad- got that job by the way!", "pardon?", "nevermind, flat white please".

Ever since that first meeting, my blue bag and I have gone into Costa on the way to work. There is a whole gaggle of people in this world who frequent the same establishment everyday, often with a stalwart object or piece of clothing about their being.

I am become one.

To those baristas, I am the man with the bag: "Oh here comes the man with the bag!" or "Has the man with the bag come in yet?" or "Do you reckon he has all his friends all chopped up in that bag?". I've worked in hospitality long enough to know that those phrases will be banded about Costa every morning.

One saving grace is that Costa isn't open in the evening, when I clock off and there's a variety of bars to prop up while I wait on my bus. The other saturday I had a long time to kill, and in that long time I managed to get a few whiskeys down. The main bar was too busy in this place so I went to the quieter upstairs bit, and stood with my back to the bar, staring at the empty stage with my blue bag tucked behind my feet.

A throng of rowdy people came in and broke the silence, mocking me with their mirth. I turned round for a butchers and was met by the entire cast of Costa on their work night out. I turned back round immediately and took a large swig of whisky. I felt like kicking my rucksack: "your such an embarrassment".

Nobody said anything, but I'd bet the next day at work, fighting to keep their hungover eyes open they said something along the lines of "hey was that bag-man in the pub last night?" "I don't know, let's ask him when he inevitably comes in".