‘Bloody hell. Proper handwritten letters? Me up there with Gazza, who’d have thought?’ I was making light of it, but I was now desperately trying to dredge up some urgent memories of not only a) doing the graffiti in the first place, but also b) what I’d said after the fact that could possibly have been misconstrued as some kind of a philosophy, ethos or even credo. All of which seemed kind of important.

While it was embarrassing to have finally lived down to Ray’s expectations and been arrested, this turn of events had the potential to be far worse than that. Because here was nice young Pete Barker from the Double sitting a bit too comfortably on Buzz Lightyear’s big grinning head telling me – what? His readers liked me? The thought of anything I’d said making any kind of sense – particularly when I didn’t even remember it myself – was frankly a bit of a worry.

‘The thing is, Danny, it’s all about perspective, isn’t it?’ Probably not, Pete mate. ‘I mean, people hear what they want to hear, or in this case, read what they want to read. Everybody’s looking for enlightenment, the meaning of life and all that, so if someone shows up and comes across as a bit of a guru in that department, well, who can blame people for wanting a piece of him?’ Pete cleared his throat and I definitely didn’t imagine he gave me the side-eye. ‘A few of them have even said straight up that you’re the sign they’ve been waiting for and the story has, you know, galvanised them into action.’

I would genuinely struggle to come up with anything that might make someone think I could be a sign of anything meaningful, let alone one that could galvanise them into action. ‘Listen, Pete, I’m not going to lie. I was pretty . . . Well, let’s say just I was a bit under the weather that morning.’ Understatement of the year right there, and George would have been on to it like a shot. ‘Whatever I said to the police, or whoever you got your information from . . . Look, to be honest I don’t actually remember all that much of it.’ Or any of it.

Pete waved his hand breezily, as though my admission was entirely irrelevant. I remembered the old saying about never letting the truth get in the way of a good story and wondered just how loosely a newspaper like the Double was allowed to interpret the meaning of ‘freedom of the press’.

‘Danny, don’t worry about it, mate. I spoke to your neighbour and the arresting officer and they both told me you were completely smashed, so, no offence, but it’s really not surprising you don’t remember much, is it?’ He had a point. ‘And look, don’t beat yourself up. Nobody could have predicted it would get the kind of response it has.’

I glanced over to the downstairs bedroom window again, and an image of Wolfie’s small hands and messy navy nail varnish pushing the newspaper across the kitchen table flashed into my head.