Has it ever struck you how much money people waste buying crap? I never really noticed till that Saturday after our night on the boat, when me and Ginger walked round the market.

Camden Lock market’s famous, apparently, but I’d never heard of it till that morning. It’s right beside the canal – a big site crammed with shops and stalls flogging all sorts of fancy stuff. Hats. Jewellery. Tee-shirts. Mirrors. Candles. Candles, for Chrissake. You name it, they’ve got it. A lot of the stuff’s ethnic – Indian and so on – and they burn joss sticks all the time so the whole place smells of incense. It’s only there weekends, and it attracts thousands of people.

Anyway, me and Ginger walk round and he says, ‘No shortage of dosh here, Link old son. Money to burn. Breaks my heart how they chuck it away. Look.’ I look where he’s pointing and see fat, rainbow-coloured candles at four pounds twenty apiece. ‘Four pounds twenty,’ he laments. ‘They’ll refuse you ten pence towards a cup of tea, then spend four twenty on a bleedin’ candle. Makes you weep.’

I chuckle, ‘Why’d we come here, then, if it upsets you so much?’

He winks. ‘Facilities, old son. Come on.’

I followed him up some steps and along a walkway and there were some immaculate toilets. We used the lavatories and had a proper wash. Ginger even washed out a pair of Y-fronts he produced from his pack. People were in and out all the time but nobody paid us any attention. I must have used about sixteen paper towels drying myself but I felt a whole lot better afterwards.

We’re sipping scalding tea in one of the market cafes when three kids come in. Ginger knows them and calls out and they come and sit with us. Two guys and a girl, all with packs and that grey, zombie look you get from living on the street. Ginger doesn’t introduce me and they ignore me, talking thirteen to the dozen with their chapped hands wrapped round steaming mugs. Where you been? How’s it going? D’you ever see old what’s-his-face nowadays? I sit gazing into my tea, feeling – what? Jealousy? Maybe. Apprehension, certainly. These are Ginger’s friends. They’ve shared experiences. Have acquaintances in common. They know what he knows. What if he ditches me – goes off with them? If I was alone again, could I stand it? Do I know enough to get by?

A name comes up. A jokey name. Doggy Bag. ‘D’you ever see Doggy Bag now?’ asks Ginger, and the girl shakes her head.

‘No,’ she says. ‘He vanished. One day he’s in his usual doorway, next day gone.’

‘Found work, maybe,’ one of the guys suggests.

‘Or moved on,’ says the other. This closes the subject and the chat moves on, leaving me wondering how a guy gets a name like that.