The Denim Man

His jacket was denim. As was his waistcoat, his shirt and his tie. His trousers were denim. He looked across the room, tapping his fingers on the armrest. We waited to begin.

We were sat in the tasting room, at Lagavulin distillery. But I couldn’t think of that. Who was this man? I couldn’t take my eyes off him, but I also couldn’t stare, I didn’t want to seem rude, or worse even, accidentally catch his eye and be drawn into the battleground of conversation. Then again he looked at me.