The barman is quite a cute Brazilian who always gives me large measures and tries to get my phone number so I busy myself with him for a moment, while Jonathan squirms in his seat and clears his throat to get my attention, but he’s kept me waiting for three quarters of an hour so it won’t hurt him. I keep a close grip on both glasses because he’s quite capable of downing one and wanting a refill while you’re still getting change.

Eventually I relent and hand him the drink, and he doesn’t wait to say cheers but gets the straw between his lips and sucks so hard that it looks like his head is going to implode. I often wonder what it would be like to receive oral sex from Jonathan, but fortunately I have never had to find out. Even when we met at college, and everyone assumed we were lovers, we weren’t, which suited both of us just fine. The liquid in Jonathan’s glass zooms downwards, until there’s only ice, and he’s still sucking. I expect to see the ice cubes going up the straw.

‘Aaaaaah!’ He’s panting, like a little boy who’s just drunk a glass of squash in one go. ‘That’s better!’ Jonathan takes his pleasures at a gallop. I’ve barely sipped mine. He’s got an expectant look in his eye, but I can see that he’s torn between wanting another drink and giving me my present, so I say nothing.

‘Dis is for yoooo,’ he says, adopting a baby voice, holding the bag out with both hands, dangling it from its rope handles. ‘I hope you love it.’

It weighs next to nothing.

‘Thank you, Jonathan.’

‘Open it open it open it!’

When Jonathan gives a present – which isn’t very often – he does so because it gives him an opportunity to display his good taste.

It’s a wallet. I have a wallet, of course, but I’m too polite to mention this – although Jonathan is familiar enough with its contents. Perhaps he feels that he’s worn it out, and that I need a new one.

‘It’s lovely. Thank you very much.’ It’s made of brown leather, and it’s got about enough room for a credit card inside. You certainly couldn’t keep cash in there, but as Jonathan never carries cash that probably wouldn’t have occurred to him.

‘Look,’ he says, grabbing it off me and turning it over, ‘it’s Ungaro.’

If I hold it at the right angle, I can just about read the words EMANUEL UNGARO embossed into the leather.

‘Wow … It’s great.’ It occurs to me that it might make a handy holder for my Oyster card, which is probably not what Jonathan had in mind.

‘Go on, then. Transfer everything.’

‘Not now, Jonathan.’

‘You don’t like it.’

‘I do. I love it. I just don’t want to …’

He snatches it out of my hand. ‘I’ve got the receipt, you know. I can take it back and exchange it for something else.’