‘Come on,’ said Ginger. ‘We don’t want to outstay our welcome or he’ll bar us.’ He got up and shouldered his pack. ‘There’s a nice washroom through the back here. I’ll show you.’

We used the washroom and left the kebab house just as it was starting to get light. I tagged along with Ginger through the early rush, hoping he’d let me stick with him today. I’d a feeling he knew a lot of stuff I’d need to learn if I was to survive in this great, cold jungle.

It was a raw morning with a sneaky wind which came out of side streets and went right through you. I thought Ginger was looking for a good spot to sit – somewhere out of the wind with plenty of passers-by, but we just kept walking. We were going south and I thought, I wish England wasn’t an island, then we could just keep going till we came to Spain or North Africa – somewhere warm and sunny. After a while I said, ‘Where we off?’ and he said, ‘Don’t matter. This weather, gotta keep moving.’

It was daylight now and there were plenty of people about. I started noticing how a lot of them would alter course so they wouldn’t pass too close to us. Now and then Ginger would change course too and intercept some guy. ‘Got any spare change, mate?’ he’d ask, and nearly always the guy would go on by without giving anything.

For something to do, I began studying their various responses. Some would simply walk on glassy-eyed and expressionless, as though Ginger wasn’t there. Some assumed angry expressions, compressing their lips and sweeping by as though grossly insulted. There were head-shakers, pocket-patters and shruggers, who demonstrated through mime the absence of coins in their pockets; and there were those who’d mutter unintelligibly, so that you couldn’t tell whether they’d said sorry no change or bugger off. Once Ginger accosted a stiff, military-looking guy who stopped, looked him up and down as if he was something the cat sicked up and said ‘Change? I’d change you my lad, if I had you in khaki for six weeks.’ There were lots of solcredulists about.