I follow him through the sea of Santa hats and hastily fashioned tinsel scarves, my brain still fizzing from our conversation in the pub. Once he finds a choice spot, Harv slings an arm around me and thwacks my shoulder repeatedly until I start singing along with him. And maybe it’s the undeniable glow of festive goodwill in this square – or, more likely, the sight of my best mate gleefully strangling the high note on ‘Oh-oh tidings of comfort and joy’ – but for a few seconds, I actually find myself carried along by it all. For a brief moment, I almost lose myself.

And then I spot him.

He’s standing right at the back of the group of carollers, singing at the top of his voice, even more enthusiastically and tunelessly than everyone else. As he catches my eye, he inclines his shaggy head and shoots me a wink.

My stomach performs several vigorous forward rolls. He doesn’t look in the slightest bit different from when I last saw him, at Mum’s funeral. He’s still wearing the same shabby suit and garish reindeer-speckled tie, and his tangle of grey-gold hair is as wild as ever.

Through the roar of confusion, I nudge Harv and indicate the watch-seller.

‘Oh yeah.’ Harv laughs. ‘He’s really going for it. Dude could give Brian Blessed a run for his money.’

There’s not even a flicker of recognition in his face. He has clearly never seen this man before in his life – let alone in the past twenty-four hours.

Before I can process what this might mean, someone starts handing out Santa hats to the carollers. I watch the old man stick his on at a jaunty angle, still singing boisterously, and I’m struck once again by his resemblance to Grandad Jack.

The song comes to an end – the final protracted ‘co-om-fort and joy’ collapsing under the laughter of the performers – and the onlookers clap and cheer and stamp their feet as the singers take a mock-dramatic bow. A few Santa hats are thrown into the air, and people are hollering ‘Merry Christmas!’ over the applause. A few of the carollers weave straight in among us, shaking Salvation Army-branded tins, and before I know it, the watch-seller is right there.

‘Any change, lads?’ he asks brightly.

Harv digs into his pocket and slots in a pound coin. ‘There you go, mate. Merry Christmas.’

‘And to you too,’ the old man twinkles.

‘Good work on that tune. I was saying to my friend here, you’ve got a serious set of lungs on you.’

The watch-seller gives a warm chuckle at this. ‘What I lack in capability, I feel I more than make up for in effort.’