He takes the hand that I’m still holding out. ‘Hi Rob.’ I can’t work out whether he has an American accent or not. ‘Hadley.’

‘Hello Hadley.’

He doesn’t introduce the Romanian gypsy, who is now busy texting someone.

‘Anyway, I don’t know yet if I’m definitely going, it depends if I can get some you know what,’ says Jonathan, who hasn’t stopped talking.

‘Oh, sure,’ says Hadley. ‘Charlie will be there. And Tina.’

‘Fabulous,’ says Jonathan. ‘I’ve never met Tina, and I’m dying to make her acquaintance.’

‘You’ll love her, Nathan,’ says Hadley. I raise my eyebrows at Jonathan, who gives me one of his ‘don’t you dare’ looks. We’ll discuss this later.

‘And are you going to be there?’ says Hadley, turning to face me full on. This has an effect rather like a total eclipse of the sun; I swear Soho suddenly gets a little bit darker.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, because I haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about.

‘Bring him,’ says Hadley to Jonathan, as if it’s an order for a takeaway. And then he’s off, with the Romanian gypsy trotting along after him, still texting. As he recedes down the street I notice that he’s actually got a normal person’s legs, which look far too thin to support the massive superstructure. Perhaps the mirrors in his gym only go down to waist level.

‘So, Nathan,’ I start, and Jonathan turns on me and is about to launch into a number, but he twizzles himself off his flip-flop and lands with one bare foot in a patch of chewing gum. This takes the wind out of his sails, and for the next few minutes I’m squatting down scraping sticky peppermint-scented crap off his heel, which is pretty dirty already as it would be if you insist on wearing flip-flops in London. Disgusting as this job is, it does show my thighs to quite good advantage, and it completely puts me off the idea of eating, so I don’t have to worry about fat and carbs.

Jonathan is obviously hoping that I’ve forgotten the whole ‘Nathan’ thing but I haven’t, I’m waiting for him to say where we’re going next, as this is supposed to be my birthday treat and he’s been hinting about ‘something really special’ for weeks now. I’m actually quite excited although I should know better, having known Jonathan for as long as I have.

‘So,’ I say, as we walk along Old Compton Street, ‘where now?’

‘You’ll see,’ says Jonathan, in a way that makes me nervous, because if he’s excited about something I’m almost bound to hate it. And I’m not disappointed.

We turn into Charing Cross Road and my heart starts to sink.

‘Oh God, Jonathan, we’re not going to GAY, are we?’

He looks offended, like an angry duck.

‘Don’t you know who’s on?’

‘Don’t tell me, some has-been from the nineties who’s got a best of to flog.’ I’m quoting Jonathan almost verbatim here, because he’s said as much, in a very loud voice, when sailing past the queues on our way into Soho.