But, on this day, I wasn’t there to sample such Turkish delights. Instead, I remained where I was, sitting on the daybed outside the treatment rooms, full of my own Eastern promise, waiting in anticipation for Anton Valance to appear from his massage.

While I waited, I removed my mobile phone from my swim shorts pocket and checked the recent results on the Racing Post app. Oscar Mike had finished second in the three thirty at Market Rasen, beaten by just half a length.

Maybe Jimmy had been doing his best to win after all, and the horse hadn’t been quite good enough, or perhaps he had lost his nerve and made sure he didn’t, but only by a small margin so as not to attract the attention of the stewards. Only time, and another little chat, would tell.

Slightly disappointed, I looked up a few other things on the internet and then put my phone back in my pocket. I then went on waiting.

Laura, the masseuse, appeared first, bang on the fifty-minute mark, and, soon after, Valance emerged looking suitably relaxed.

It almost seemed a shame, I thought, that I hoped to re-create in him all the stress that the massage had just taken away, and more.

At first he seemed undecided but quickly opted for a session in the steam room, a small, fully tiled area directly off the changing room. I followed him through the glass door and sat down next to him on the blue-tiled bench seat. I still had the towel over my head and I also had my left forearm covered. Fortunately, except for the two of us, the place was empty.

He said nothing, nor did I, just the merest of grunts between us to act as both a welcome and also a warning that speaking was not wanted or required.

Too bad, I thought.

However, we sat side by side in silence for a minute or two as the steam billowed around us.

Then the door opened and someone else came in, a man of about fifty. More grunts. The newcomer sat down on the far side of Valance, closed his eyes and put his head back, flattening his dark curly hair against the tile wall.

‘Now then, Mr Anton Valance,’ I said quietly but distinctly straight into his left ear from about two inches away, while at the same time taking the towel off my head. ‘I met two friends of yours in the car park at Catterick Racecourse. They gave me a message about pissing off back south and not coming back. Do you want to hear my reply?’

He turned his head towards me and remained remarkably calm.

‘Sid ’alley, I presume.’ With his Yorkshire accent, he had dropped the H.

‘One and the same.’