Tom is drawn to random encounters, to sharing the experiences of others in a way that most people would feel uncomfortable doing. “Shall we join in?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Poker?” There are a hundred varieties, all subtly different, a complete mishmash of rules and plays that I don’t know every permutation of, despite my dealer background.

“We’ll wing it,” Tom says.

In a casino the house always wins, every game designed for money to move one way, even if you don’t realize it at the time. You can help yourself by at least knowing the rules of the game you are playing. To do anything else is to piss money up a wall.

Tom laughs at the serious look on my face. “Oh, come on!” He grabs my hand to pull me toward them. “It’ll be fun!” Perhaps former accountants have a different idea of fun when it comes to putting your own money on a small circle of felt?

Tom and I slide on to the high stools and hand over our little stack of crisp notes to the dealer. We start small, a five-dollar bet here, another five dollars there. The odd dollar on the side bets. Despite it being nine in the morning and pre-breakfast, we have a glass of champagne. We play a bit more. The Irish are raucous. We have another glass of champagne. And then, as the cards start to swim, I suggest we call it a day and head for those waffles. We have fifty dollars left from our initial stake. With a shrug, Tom pops one of the green chips on to the ante marker. “In for a penny,” he says under his breath, “well… cent, I suppose.” A suited king and queen are dealt to him. With a shrug he pops the other green chip on the play marker. Fifty dollars waged on a single turn of the cards. Cards that are turned one by one: jack of hearts, ace of hearts, ten of hearts. A royal flush. Five hundred to one. Twenty-five thousand dollars!

After breakfast, with more champagne proving to be a delightful accompaniment to fried chicken, we weave our way through the throngs toward the Forum shops. The ceiling is painted to look like a real sky, the clouds moving against the blue. It’s a pure illusion, but the effect is magical when you’re sober and utterly enthralling if you’ve been chugging champagne for the past few hours. Tom is leading the way, the speed of his stride urgent, wanting to get to his destination.

“Ta-da!” he trills as we turn the corner. We are outside the exorbitantly expensive watch shop I had slowed down passing the other day. For over a decade, I had promised myself that one day I would buy a proper watch. Not a cheap one made in China, or even a high-fashion brand with a fancy face; no, a proper one, made by a real horologist in a small workshop somewhere. But I have never yet been able to justify the expense.