Gordon arrived in Capri’s self-declared historic Central Business District on the morning of his court date and his mother’s birthday. He knew the risks in relying on the legal system to process his case in time for lunch at the country club, but Gordon Grimes liked to live on the edge. It was a paradox of life as a bum that the less he had to do, the more he crammed what remained of his appointments, as if his body had some unconscious need for time pressure, which, if his external circumstances declined to provide, his poor decisions would create.

He circled the public car park, checking his watch, wanting to time his entry through the boom gate to maximise his chances of getting his court appearance done before his two hours’ free parking ran out. Like loan sharks, the council hit you with severe penalties the instant you overstayed your generously provided gratis period. As he circled, Gordon wondered if he would always be like this, worrying himself to the grave over seven dollars for parking. If his father’s behaviour was any guide, he would only get worse.

Once inside the car park, he lost a handful of what could be critical minutes after tailing a young pedestrian wearing an incipient white man’s afro, Bob Marley T-shirt and what looked like chef ’s pants to his Skoda Yeti. Gordon planned to take his space, but Whafro got into the Yeti and sat there. Increasingly irritable, assuming Whafro was on his phone, Gordon got out and rapped on the Yeti’s window.

‘You’re leaving, right?’

Only then did Gordon see that Whafro was not on his phone. With a street directory open on his lap and scissors in his hand, he was chopping up a mound of bush weed. Gordon thought, Bush weed? Street directories? These hipster kids.

Whafro shook his head and went on with his preparations. This was going to take longer than a phone call.

An Audi, having come up behind the Car With No Name, which was blocking the circuit, was flashing his headlights. Setting aside his nostalgic sentiments about the bush weed and the directory, Gordon puffed up to his full width and barked at Whafro: ‘Out of the car park. Now.’

Fashions came and went, but smoker’s paranoia was permanent. Whafro, now thinking Gordon might be a scary quasi-official adult, clapped shut his directory and fumbled his key into the ignition. Gordon went back to his car, as privately gleeful as if he had crossed a breach in time and frightened his own younger self. His momentary pleasure was broken by the Audi driver, who was shouting at Gordon from inside his soundproof bubble.

‘Keep your hair on, man,’ Gordon muttered.