Nevin is from Dundee. He recently moved to Amsterdam. He’s visited the city regularly in the past twenty-five years, but this time he’s staying for good.
Why now? He doesn’t really know. But he does tell me he left school at sixteen and did some travelling before ending up at a comics house, where he published his first story at the age of eighteen. No, he wasn’t the artist, he wrote the storyline.
“The best days of my life,” he says.
That doesn’t sound very positive coming from a man in his sixties.
He likes to sit beside the water in the late afternoon. We sit together in silence.
Two lads with rods walk by. Nevin asks them what they’re after.
Snoekbaars.
“Ahh, perch-pike. Delicious.” He grew up alongside the water. “Do the people here appreciate this place?” he wonders.
The sun sets behind Central Station. There’s a chill in the air.
“Sorry to ask,” he says, “but could you spare some small change?”
All in all, a gentle soul, Nevin. He leaves me wondering about the rest of his story.
Borgman
