One thing I can be certain of, though, is this: that, when the Queequeg at last drew up alongside the first of those great waterside palaces belonging to the new breed of West Australian millionaire, there was not the slightest irony in the manner of Ian’s running commentary to me on whose was whose. ‘See that one? That’s Lang Hancock’s. That one there – the one on three storeys – belongs to Dallas Dempster. And over there is Michael Edgley’s. Here’s an interesting one – it’s owned by Alistair Norwood. He made his fortune out of selling jeans. You wouldn’t think there was so much money to be made in jeans, would you?’

It was my opinion that there were a hell of a lot of jeans kicking around the place.

‘A lot of competition too,’ Ian said. He somehow gave me the impression that he’d put his mind to jeans quite seriously. ‘Oh, but here’s Bondy’s – though he’s reputed not to be in it much.’

‘It’s quite modest,’ I noticed, ‘relatively, that is. But then I suppose if you’ve got your name on skyscrapers all over the city it isn’t so essential that you have the biggest house.’

Ian made me feel that this was the most awesomely complex sentence he had ever been called upon to unravel. He stared at me, he stared at the glass palaces, he stared into his wine. I suppose he might have been thinking through what he’d have found essential had he been Bondy. Whatever the reason, it took him a good ten minutes – time enough for three more trays of quiche and sausages (Olive’s hand-stuffed sausages) to be passed around – before he came up with, ‘That’s right. I suppose it isn’t.’

‘Though then again,’ I pursued, ‘I would imagine that you, as a general practitioner in a booming state, must have somewhere pretty nice to repair to yourself.’

‘Ah, yes – ah, yes – quite nice. Though we do have three children to send to school.’