ME: ‘Ha ha ha! Seriously? Cato? Your parents must really love The Pink Panther films!’

HIM [aloofly]: ‘No. They’re Stoics.’

But we had an hour to kill just queuing and in that hour we found an area of mutual interest, which he described endearingly as ‘the search for pre-owned treasure’. In his case it’s an old master and in mine, a couture ensemble with a label discreetly hidden in a seam and no sweat marks.

‘Hi, Cato,’ I say cheerfully, shouting above the patter of rain on the canvas. ‘Have you got anything for me?’

‘Can you read Arabic?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘Oh. Right, what have I got? I’ve got some men’s clothing here, if you’re interested. Safari suits. Must be, ooh, about nine or ten of them. Large. I’ve had them a while, so I can give you a good deal on the price.’

I laugh. ‘Nine or ten safari suits?’

‘He was a bit of an armchair traveller, this guy. Collected adventure books but he never left the country, his wife said.’

Making him promise to keep me in mind, I then google the local churches to find out when their sales are on. Primrose Hill, Belsize Park and Regent’s Park are areas that regularly enjoy sharing the distribution of wealth. Naomi Watts is happy to hear from me. Her church has started a weekly clothing sale on Sunday afternoons during the summer, at the same time as they serve teas in the garden. I can’t make Sundays – they’re the busiest days in Camden Lock – but it helps to be practical.

‘Come on Saturday night for sorting,’ she says, ‘and maybe you could bring your Allen keys. The clothing rails need tightening up.’

‘Will do!’

I’ve just put my phone back in my pocket when it rings. It’s Mick, who I haven’t heard from for a week. He sounds cheerful, even at this time of the morning, and we flirt a little. I love his deep, decisive voice. He’s got the kind of voice that makes everything sound like an indecent proposal.

‘Quick call. I’ve got two tickets to the Jazz Cafe in Camden Town on Friday. Are you free?’

My stomach flips and I grip the phone tightly. ‘Oh, I’m free,’ I say breathlessly.

He laughs and we agree on a time to meet, then off he goes.

Mick’s phone call restores my energy. I watch the raindrops bouncing off the cobbles and I squint at the sky. The dark clouds are fading to silver grey. I pay another visit to my neighbour. ‘Hey, David!’

He looks up at me, eyebrows raised in query, watching me loitering under my umbrella.

‘I think the rain’s easing off.’