Sitting inside a discarded supermarket trolley is a local man, unamused. His feet are bare, but his shirt and trousers suggest a blue uniform of some sort, perhaps for service at a hotel. Directly behind the man is a larger-than-life statue of Ronald McDonald with his giant yellow hands pressed together in the wai greeting, his red smile as bold as the food sitting heavily in my gut. The man seems to have found a perfect little spot to take a break, although he’s interrupted by a couple of passers-by who ask if they can have a selfie with him. He nods repeatedly and they all pose tight, gesturing double peace signs.

‘I’ve got to get a pic of this,’ Jack says. He digs into his khaki canvas man-bag, another Patpong purchase and one that he has not stopped admiring, wondering why he’s never bought anything like it before. I can already see it being slung into his wardrobe, never to be seen again; because believe me, he won’t be using that commuting on the London Underground.

Jack ushers me to get into the picture.

‘No way,’ I cower behind his broad back. ‘Leave him be.’

But raising his hands, Jack frames the picture in portrait and … snap! I glance over Jack’s shoulder and he’s nailed it. Clear, colourful and precise; not a photo bomber in sight. The man is looking directly into the lens. Ronald McDonald looms in the background, a God-like presence. Bangkok has been captured: a moment of honesty within the bizarre.

Jack shows the man, who gives a thumbs up, and then he shows it to me properly. It’s a truly great photograph.

‘That could win a prize,’ I say.

‘We should get it printed and hang it on our wall,’ Jack says.

Stopping amidst the choppy sea of fast-paced pedestrians, he’s head and shoulders above most, his thick sandy hair a foot above my recently bleached bob. He slaps his hands high onto an imaginary wall, pretending to see his photographic creation hung up there.

‘Our wall?’ I ask.

‘Let’s live together.’

In the short time I’ve known Jack, I’m used to his outspoken thoughts, his confident remarks. They’re never arrogant, yet always strong, supported by his big physique and naturally bellowing voice. He’s the big, friendly giant, and it seems like my innermost desire is coming true; he’s mine.

‘A couple of months ago we didn’t even know each other,’ I remind him, but there’s a chuckle in my voice. I’m making him aware of what others might say, rather than airing my own concerns. To be honest, I don’t have any.

‘Move in with me, Chloe.’

‘You want me to move to London?’

‘We’ll save a fortune on train fares.’

‘How romantic.’

‘And we’ll see each other seven days a week.’

‘Hmm. I might get sick of you, hun.’