I headed off down the street on my well-worn path to the pub, saluting a loitering Ray as I passed, and it struck me that, what with George buzzing around like a lovesick blowfly, Gentleman discovering that his options for head rubs and stray crumbs had increased exponentially, and Dom playing the host with the most to perfection, the only ones not acting like it was the first day of the summer holidays were Lou and Wolfie. And me.

Much, much later that night, I made a well-executed entry through the front door. (I was toasted by most people’s standards, but in a surprising turn of events I’d resisted the lure of a roadie when the barman called last orders.) I got the key in on the second try and I was even able to give Crystal Mickey a quick flick of the ears on the way through.

Gentleman was on his bed in the kitchen just inside the back door and he lifted his head slightly when I opened the fridge, blinked a couple of times, then went straight back to sleep. As far as he was concerned, I was home, I was drunk and all was right with the world. I bent down and gave him a kiss on his big, hairy old head, because I love that guy, but what the hell did he know?

Out in the shed, I flicked on the kettle and sat on the edge of the bed, looking around one man’s garden shed and another man’s castle. Apart from the bed, the main furnishings consisted of a paint-splattered timber table pushed up beside the sink, a battered bar fridge, which I only ever used for my half-pints of milk, an old TV cabinet where I kept my trainers and a few piles of clothes, and the upturned plastic milk crate I used as a bedside table. Minimalist decor, I liked to call it. Maximum ridiculousness, Dom never tired of correcting me. There’s no toilet, so while in summer it’s fine to nip out pre-dawn for a bit of sneaky relief, winter is a different story. I play the early-morning long game, holding on for as long as humanly possible before sprinting across the garden and into the downstairs loo, or (more often) decorating the frost on the ground around the lemon tree, depending on the time and temperature, of course. Ray’s copped an eyeful on more than one occasion, but my conscience remains clear, because as far as I’m concerned anything goes at that time of the morning, so it serves him right.

I know Dom doesn’t quite understand why I won’t stay in the house, but my reasoning is perfectly logical. To me, at least. I’m possibly overthinking (it wouldn’t be the first time), but there’s something about enjoying the spoils of luxury when you haven’t done anything to deserve it that exacerbates any not very latent feelings of inadequacy. Dom doesn’t get it, because he’s the kind of guy that wouldn’t even entertain the idea of not sharing his good fortune.