Dear Jerome,

when you stopped me in a tunnel at the Barton Underground, I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd seen you before, or more often heard you, your harmonica jangling out over the streets as I walked home from the city centre. People walk past you a lot. I always smile. It's simple: your music, your crazy flailing of legs and arms, cheers me up and makes me smile. Any day when I see you is a good day.

But you'd never stopped me before. This time, you stopped me, and said, I'm a drone. I'm a drone. I'm Jerome. I was captivated. Then you played me a tune on your harmonica.

People walked past, of course, some of them smiling to see this young girl being serenaded by a busker in a ragged straw hat with huge, uneven yellow teeth. Some of them weren't smiling but frowning, out of disapproval or envy, I guess. When you were done we smiled properly at each other, like we were old friends, and then I turned to go- just in time I looked back, and told you my name.

Charlotte. Charlotte. Like a song, you said. And then you sang my name like it was a love song.

I haven't really seen you since.