I was having a wash down, at the bathroom sink, when up came the Hoplite, nervously patting his hair which was done in a new style of hair-do like as if a large animal had licked the Hoplite’s locks down flat, then licked the tip of them over his forehead vertical up, like a cockatoo with its crest back-to-front. He was wearing a pair of skin-tight, rubber-glove thin, almost transparent cotton slacks, white nylon-stretch and black wafer-sole casuals, and a sort of maternity jacket, I can only call it, coloured blue. He looked over my shoulder into the mirror, patting his head and saying nothing, till when I said nothing too, he asked me, ‘Well?’

‘Smashing, Hoplite,’ I said. ‘It gives you a rugged, shaggy, Burt Lancaster appearance.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ the Hoplite said, ‘it’s me.’

‘It’s you, alright, boy. Of course, anything is, Fabulous. You’re one wo can wear anything, even a swimsuit or a tuxedo, and look nice in it.’

‘I know you’re one of my fans,’ the Hoplite said, smiling sadly in the mirror, but don’t mock.’

‘No mockery, man. You’ve got dress sense.’

The Hoplite sat down on the lavatory seat, and sighed. ‘It’s not dress sense I need,’ he said, ‘but horse sense.’

I raised my brows and waited.

‘Believe it or not, my dear,’ the Hoplite continued sadly, ‘but your old friend Fabulous, for the first time in his life – the very first in nineteen years (well, that’s a lie, I’m twenty, really) – is deep, deep, deep in love.’

‘Ah, I replied.’