Anyway, there was that, and then there was Boxing Day. Boxing Day Mum came round, and she brought Vince with her. I can only think that Carole had never told Chris the full story about him, or surely Chris wouldn’t have had him in the house. Anyway, they came for dinner and stayed till one o’clock next morning, and of course everybody got drunk. Everybody except me. And once he got a skinful, Vince started making cracks about me. The ghost of Christmas past, he called me. Don’t ask me why. I was a disgrace, he said, stuffing myself with my sister’s grub. Sitting there with my long hair and tatty clothes, making Mum feel guilty when she’d had nothing to feel guilty about. I was a scrounger, a sponger and a layabout, and I ought to be looking for work instead of sitting with a face as long as a fiddle, spoiling everybody’s Christmas.

It didn’t feel like peace on earth, I can tell you that. There wasn’t a lot of goodwill toward men floating about. And the worst thing was, nobody stuck up for me. Not even my sister. It was then I knew I’d worn out my welcome, even here. So.

On December 28th I borrowed the price of a one-way ticket to London. Carole lent me the money. She even came to see me off at the station, and hugged me before I climbed on board with my backpack and my bed-roll. The next hug I got was from a stinky old ciderhead in Lincoln’s Inn Fields when I gave him twenty pence so he’d leave me alone.

Daily Routine Orders 4

It is 19.00 hours and this has been a most satisfactory day. Most satisfactory. The secret of victory in any campaign is planning and preparation. My planning has been meticulous, and my preparations are now complete.

I have acquired a cat. This was my finishing touch. I can’t abide the arse-licking, hair-scattering beasts myself, but you have to admit there’s something reassuring about a home with a cat in it. A cat speaks of warmth, comfort, placid domesticity. A man who keeps a cat can’t possibly mean anybody harm, can he?

I’ve christened it Sappho. A brilliant touch this, suggesting as it does a degree of scholarship in the creature’s owner. I don’t even know whether the bloody thing’s male or female and I don’t care – the point being is that a feller with a cat called Sappho is going to project a certain sort of image. Kindly and a bit academic. He might be expected to have a vague conscience about sleeping snug and warm while others live rough. He’ll be a bumbler, but he might be stirred now and then to actually do something about this – to offer grub and a bed for the night to some poor unfortunate soul, no strings attached.