One time I heard Greta say, quite sadly I thought, in my close-to-professional opinion, that the problem with life is that something can start off as small as a flea and end up as big as a freight train. I stayed awake an entire night thinking about that one.

If Lou ever noticed when I brought the words I’d heard in Greta’s office out for an airing, she never let on. She’d just nod and close her eyes and ask me would I mind terribly if we had the curtains pulled. Or yes, she’d love a cup of tea thanks, but could I possibly close the kitchen door because the kettle was just a bit too loud.

When Greta cut us loose, like I knew she would eventually, because you can only GPS your way into a brick wall so many times, I still occasionally used some of her words for old times’ sake. And because they were pretty much all I had.

I wasn’t convinced that therapy was the right therapy for either Lou or me, but I did know that nobody wants to be in the way of the flea that turns into a freight train.

17

Danny

One of the few concessions I made to my self-imposed exile in Dom’s garden shed was the use of his Gaggia coffee machine. Proof that I’m not too proud to accept charity of the caffeinated kind, which might seem hypocritical, but what can I say, I’m an enigma wrapped in a conundrum. Or so I was once told by a gentle, trippy woman called Janey, who took me home to a gypsy caravan in her elderly parents’ back garden. She read my cards and traced circles on my back with an eagle feather from a Poundshop, and it’s still my favourite ever description of me.

I’m quite a dab hand at the Gaggia, if I do say so myself, the result of a month working in a trendy cafe in Camden Town. I genuinely loved that job, and when I got the sack it had nothing to do with my skills behind the coffee machine and everything to do with my highly personalised brand of customer service. Hand on heart, I can say that the customers who did get their coffee (with a generous side of conversation) were very happy. The quite large number of thirsty punters who didn’t, not so much.

For the past year, my morning drill had been to roll out of bed at a seven twenty-eight alarm (because if I wasn’t up by seven thirty, I’d have to deal with Gentleman at the shed door) and stroll or shuffle across to the house, depending on the mood of the day. I’d fire up the Gaggia and make an espresso for Dom, a cappuccino for me and a Georgeaccino for the boss. Because even though George insists he’s not a baby, he is partial to a bit of banter and a cup of warm frothy milk in the morning.