‘It’s all right, dog,’ he tells her, but really he’s telling himself. They both gaze out of the window as trees and bushes turn into the grey tarmac of the road along the seafront, where waves crash and smash against the marina. As they head into Brighton city, George sees cranes and lorries where buildings used to be. Traffic, and an abandoned shell in place of the old swimming-pool. Brighton needs some tidying up, George thinks idly. Betty could get it done in a flash. He rests his head against the window and closes his eyes.

The bus driver shakes him so hard his bones rattle. ‘Hey, mate. It’s the last stop. You need to get up.’ George’s eyes open slowly, and he looks around in confusion. This isn’t his armchair. The person waking him up is not Ellen, or Betty.

‘Where am I?’ The bus driver looks cross. ‘You’re at Brighton station,’ he says slowly, as if George is mentally challenged. ‘Is there someone here to meet you?’ George scowls at him.

‘Do you need help getting off the bus?’

‘No. I. Don’t.’ George lifts Poppy off his lap and sets her on the floor. It’s covered with chewing gum. ‘Your floor is filthy.’

‘I don’t clean the bus, I just drive it.’ The driver offers George a hand, but he bats it away and wobbles down the aisle with Poppy at his side.

George hasn’t been into the centre of town for a long time, even though it’s only twenty minutes from Rottingdean on the bus. Everything is different here. There is a gym where an office used to be and a café that promises ‘world-class coffee and cake’. George is suspicious, but hungry, so he heads inside.

The staff are patronizing and slow. The waitress wants to stroke Poppy. A boy at the next table pulls her tail and George thinks about stamping on his foot. The coffee is weak, and the cake is dry. He tells the waitress as much when he asks for the bill. She apologizes, and George asks if she made the cake. When she tells him no, he tells her not to apologize for it, then. She goes to get the manager but George doesn’t want to speak to the manager. He doesn’t want the credit note for a free coffee and cake either. ‘The coffee is shit and the cake is dry. Why on earth would I want to come back?’

He doesn’t pay the bill, just marches out, leaving a trail of crumbs that Poppy licks up behind him. They lumber down Queen’s Road, and George remembers the old Brighton, when there weren’t homeless people on every corner with signs that said ‘Hungry but hopeful’ and ‘I’m allergic to cheese.’ ‘Get a job,’ he grumbles at them, and tugs on Poppy’s lead when she stops to sniff and wag her tail.