They get up eventually, shrugging on their packs. We do the same. None of us wants to leave. It’s warm in the cafe, but the proprietor’s giving us dirty looks and we have no more dosh for tea, so we go before he can chuck us out. Outside, they say so long to Ginger and one of them nods to me and they’re gone, melting into the crowd. Ginger’s still here, and because I’m glad I smile and say, ‘The guy you asked about – why’d they call him Doggy Bag?’

Ginger grins. ‘He used to hang around cafes, and when somebody left he’d slip over to their table quick and drop their scraps in a plastic bag before the waitress came to clear. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for change so that’s how he lived, and that’s why we christened him Doggy Bag.’

We left the market and trudged along the towpath and I started thinking about Doggy Bag, and after a bit I had to keep my face turned away from Ginger because I was afraid he’d see I was struggling to keep from crying. I know it sounds daft. I mean, I never knew the guy. Never even met him, but what I started thinking was this. I started thinking about how once, years ago, there was this baby, and his mum and dad loved him like mums and dads do, and they gave him a name and dreamed about what he’d be when he grew up and what his life would be like and all like that, and how they never dreamed he’d be called Doggy Bag and live on scraps and be so unimportant that he’d vanish and no one would care.

Daily Routine Orders 10

I do believe the mountain has come to Mohammed. Remember the two dossers I told you about – the ones who laughed at me in the Haymarket? Well, I spotted ’em this morning at Camden Lock, talking to some other scruffs. I know it was them – I never forget a face – and what I’m hoping is, two things. One, that they’ve moved into the area, and two, that they split up sometimes. I mean. I’m good at what I do. Damn good, but even I wouldn’t fancy trying to recruit ’em two at a time.