Oh quite a nice looking chick over there. Hullo there she’s looking across. Wink at her, no response. Yeah thanks for returning it, nice of you to acknowledge it with a quirk of the lips or a friendly smile. Actually you are a hackit-looking bag, so there. Ha Ha Ha. Jasus another, look at the walk on her, definitely the girl from Ipanema.

‘Good morning Astrud,’ he called. The girl looked startled and hurried away. Ah well at least you noticed me. The crack was a bit above your level anyhow. Sorry darling but there it is. Not your fault. Man. Oh. Thought there was a tanner there – might have saved the old legs a couple of miles’ slog. Or perhaps a couple of scones from that dairy. Ah never mind. Still though imagine having lived on Britain’s green and pleasant land for twenty-three years and not a tosser to show for it, apart from the faithful 1 ½ d. Look at John Stevens too, a bloody millionaire at twenty-six. Christ look at The Beatles. No man, I’ll definitely have to change my ways. I mean it this time. Get a job and a good flat. Really go to town – do it all up – get a cocktail cabinet, that’s a must – have a few bottles of Dimple and Drambuie – all the best gear. Brandy of course – vodka too and Bacardi for the women. One of those boxes containing at least a hundred fags. The fridge of course, cheese and steak and ice cubes, crates of Guinness and lager. Christ imagine it, ninety-six mohair suits and thirty four Crombie coats and …

He stepped off the kerb, right into a deep puddle.