It’s very quiet now that the ambulance has gone. I can hear someone’s TV, a dog barking and a child crying, other, more distant sirens, a train rumbling along the railway lines, the usual medley of sounds that make up ‘silence’ in London. I can smell Indian food coming from one of the flats. I can see for miles up here – right across the railways lines, over towards Hammersmith and the west. There should be some great sunsets.

Jonathan calls me in because he’s found the tattoo that he wants to have on his back; it’s a very colourful picture of the Virgin Mary, standing full length, surrounded by an orange and yellow sort of halo thing. I say that he’s not a Christian, but he says it’s about the design and the colours, not about the ‘meaning’ of the image, and that I wouldn’t understand because I am not a graphic designer like him. I mention that he hasn’t actually worked as a graphic designer since leaving college, which is more years ago than either of us cares to remember, and he says that he’s been doing some freelance work, which is news to me, but he doesn’t elaborate. He quickly changes the subject by saying that it’s high time I got a tattoo, that there are some really beautiful Maori tribal symbols I should have on my arms and shoulders, but I say that I’m not Maori, I come from Surrey.

Jonathan thinks I don’t take body adornment seriously enough, that I might get more sex if I had some decent tattoos, but I have no desire to be one of those saggy old men you see in the clubs who got covered in ink when they were our age and now look like smudged photocopies. Jonathan has already got quite a tattoo collection, reflecting various phases of his life, the most recent being his yoga name Steady Stream in Hindi script at the base of his spine. I once happened to mention that I didn’t like the idea of ‘steady stream’ so close to his arse, but he said I was just jealous and that I was too scared to have a proper tattoo done, and that means I’m frightened of commitment.

Eventually Jonathan decides it’s time to go, which could be something to do with the fact that the vodka bottle is empty and I’m not opening anything else. I do mention that the shop across the road is open twenty-four hours a day and has a small selection of wines, beers and spirits, but he chooses not to take the hint and instead announces that he’s got a date. When I ask who with, he gets quite mysterious and will only show me a text message on his phone which says ‘u r fuckin hawtt’. Then he starts scrolling through his texts and screams when a big picture of a knob comes up and says, ‘You weren’t supposed to see that – now you know what I’m going to be doing tonight.’ I don’t think it’s the yoga teacher.