with his painstakingly pruned moustache.

He’ll never age, my Kwame,

no grey roots ruining his curly perm.

He always used too much grease:

Here let me wring yer head out,

I want to fry some chips!

Bought this tasselled suede jacket

from Carnaby Street in London.

He’d nowhere special to go in it.

We’d curl up on the settee for Coronation Street

and play with his tassels.

Kwame remembered

birthdays, valentines, anniversaries.

He’d take my hand and Terry’s hand

every time we went out,

so’s you could tell we were a family.

‘Right now I work for another one of my ex’s, Mr Roderick Wilson, during the day, and I suffer Mingles at weekends. Rod’s set himself up with another business, Mullineaux & Merryweather, Dealers of Antiques, in Ridley Road Market, Hackney. In between Hyacinth’s Caribbean Grocers and Allah’s Halal Butchers. It’s a pettifoggin’ junk shop, Stanley, and my sales pitch is making him bucket loads. Madam, this beautifully ornate piss pot is genuine seventeenth century. Nice bit of commission on the side for me. Calais here I come!’

At Clerkenwell they turned off Farringdon Road into Cherry Tree Court, a short, narrow road with no trees and no court. Houses with the gaunt faces of dying old men lined each side. They had been divided into flats and bedsits. Jessie waved to the house she lived in. He looked up at the tall building with its peeling paintwork. Yet, instead of inviting him in, to his disappointment she pointed out an olive-green Lada Niva 4-Wheel Drive parked outside.

‘Here’s Matilda, my trusty jeep.’ She patted the rusty bonnet. ‘Not find a more reliable motor than her. Has a knack of breaking down right next to a garage.’

It’s not a jeep, Stanley wanted to say. And it’s got eczema. He looked at the passenger seat, which was strewn with scrunched-up fish and chip newspaper, red ketchup sachets and a crushed can of Coca-Cola. She picked it all up and chucked it on to the back seat.

‘Tell you what, fancy a spin down to the coast? How about Broadstairs-sur-la-Mer?’

She got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, revving it so loudly he was sure she’d woken up the whole street.

‘Well, come on. Gerrin in, if you’re coming.’

He’d never thought of driving down to the coast, on impulse or otherwise. It felt so daring. He felt ridiculous. He climbed in and they drove off across London.

For the first time since they had met, Jessie was completely silent.

… Oh but that elongated flicker

of devotion at Mingles,

some disenchanted evening

full of perma-tanned drunks.

Just who pops up over my counter

like jack-in-the-box.

Who gets served first, tells me

to keep the change.

Who’ll be my baby-rattle, my dearest boy,

my rocking-cradle-joy.

And when I turn around,

he’ll be gurgling sweetly, hopefully.