This morning on the way in, I’d taken my camera with me and stopped off at the Symonds Street overbridge to take some long-exposure photos of motorway traffic.

I found a good vantage point between two large signs. It gave me a nice view of one of the sections of road and gave a nice inky blue sky towards Newmarket.

I mucked around with the settings and took a few photos until I was satisfied with what I’d taken. I turned to leave when I realised there was a man standing by me. He looked like he wanted to say something, so I took a headphone out to hear.

“I was just seeing if you were all right,” he said. I realised that because there were the big motorway signs on either side of me, he would have been unable to see my camera. All he would have seen was a person sort of leaning towards the motorway at a time when most people are still in bed.

Having just taken some choice photos that captured and beauty and splendour of Auckland, I was in an anything but suicidal mood. I could see that he was just trying to be a really really good Samaritan, but I started laughing at the silliness of the situation.

I told him what I’d been doing, thanked him for his concern and continued on to work.

Then I realised that while I’d been taking photos and talking to the man, a Leonard Cohen song had been playing on my iPod.

I took one headphone out and said, “What?” “Did you win,” he enquired. He didn’t look dodgy. He was youngish, a little scraggly, but not dodgy. “What do you mean,” I asked.

“Didn’t you just come from the casino? I’m sure I saw you there.” I was wearing my winter coat, gloves and had a “I just woke up an hour ago, so don’t fuck wit’ me, fool” aura, not a “Whee-hee! I just spent all night at the casino!!!!”

“No, that wasn’t me,” I corrected, whilst simultaneously listened to the Stone Roses in my left ear.

“I’m sure I’ve seen you there. Do you go there all the time?”

I tried to recall the last time I went to the casino. A few months ago I’d taken an accidental shortcut through there after I left the theatre on the way to the carpark. Before that, it was probably 1997 back when the casino was new and novel.

“No, I haven’t been there for ages.” The pedestrian light went green. I started crossing Hobson.

“Are you going to the Albion? I’m not following you. It’s just that I’m going to the Albion too.”

I did not want to join in him his gambling wonderland. I did not want to piss away my wallet in the company of a guy who attempts to pick up strange women at traffic lights at 6.50am. I just wanted to get to work, out of the cold.

“Righto,” I said, heading off down Hobson. He disappeared into the bowels of the Albion.

On the other hand, he might have just been going there for their delicious cooked breakfast buffet.