Now and then though, somebody would fork out a few coppers. The givers came in two types – the disdainful and the apologetic. The disdainful type would look down his nose at you, fish in his pocket, drop some coppers in your hand saying ‘There’, and move on with his head in the air. The apologetic type would look embarrassed and fumble out a fistful of coins, saying something like. ‘I’m sorry – this is all I have,’ or ‘Sorry, but you see I gave earlier – young man in a doorway.’ He’d dump the dosh in Ginger’s hand without looking to see how much there was and smile apologetically as he moved off. One such giver glanced at me with a worried expression, as though wondering whether he should have given to me, too.

We covered some miles that morning, trudging half frozen down Tottenham Court Road and on to Shaftesbury Avenue. We crossed Piccadilly Circus and set off along Piccadilly till Ginger stopped and nodded at some fancy iron gates and said, ‘Here we are, mate.’

‘Looks like a church,’ I said.

He chuckled. ‘It is. St James’s. We can take the weight off our feet, get out of this wind.’

‘Will they let us?’

‘Yeah. You can get your head down in a pew if you want, in the daytime. Locked at night, though.’

We went in. It was lovely inside – white and gold and clean looking, with vases of flowers and polished woodwork. The only person in there was a battered wino who sat hunched in a pew near the back, muttering to himself. He took no notice of us as we walked down the aisle, slipped into a pew and shrugged off our packs. It was a relief to sit down, and great to be out of the icy wind. I was amazed we’d been able to just walk in like that. I felt like I was there under false pretences and wondered if I should pray or something, but Ginger winked and grinned and started counting the change he’d collected.

‘One pound seventy-four pence,’ he announced. ‘And a peso. We can have cheese rolls for lunch, Link old son. They do an outstanding cheese roll here.’

‘Here?’ I thought he was putting me on.

‘Oh, yes. There’s a caff tagged on the side.’

‘Never.’

‘There is. Go look if you don’t believe me.’

I shook my head. ‘You’re the expert. I believe you, only that’s your dosh, not mine. I didn’t do a thing.’

He looked at me. ‘Who paid for breakfast?’

‘Well I did, but —’

‘No buts. I pay, you fetch.’ He smiled. ‘You look more respectable than me. They’ll take you for a tourist.’