The weatherman. That’s what the kids call him anyway. Always with an umbrella, come rain or shine. Prowling the streets of South Shields, often seen around the fairground and the pier, directionless with his odd scuttle and nervous twitch. He is always well dressed, some would say fit for a gent of the 1930s with his long dress coat and pointed leather shoes. A pocket watch swings precariously from that coat, something that he nervously flips and glances at every few minutes, before scuttling off again like a spooked crab. It has an odd green glow about it, not normal. But neither is the weatherman, far from it. A creature of hilarity to some but to others, one that creates a chill and a fear. Whilst brave children mock him, chase him sometimes, others cross the road and avoid eye contact which seems to empower him, gathering his pace in their direction before quickly flicking his watch, pausing to view it then disappearing down another street or lane. I for one fear him but am also fascinated, a feeling of inquisition arising each time I think of him and a feeling to find out more. That feeling grows each day, an obsession that may become unhealthy. Or perhaps, one that I may regret.