Titch. Physique: overweight, shambolic, implicitly threatening the trembling frame of his single bed. Eyes: pale blue, currently glued with manufactured attention to a picture of Ivana Trump. Mood today: laconic, with a strong undercurrent of surly defiance. His left hand dangled speculatively above a half-open packet of Jacob’s Custard Creams, like one of those mechanical claws you try to pick up prizes with at fairgrounds.

‘Hello,’ he said, without looking up.

‘Is that a tacit acknowledgement of my presence, or are you just rehearsing aloud the title of your reading matter?’ I said. I liked talking this way to Titch.

‘What?’ he said. You had to hand it to Titch, he was a genius of repartee. He was a lord of language, drunk on the endless permutations of the spoken word.

‘You’re a lord of language,’ I said.

‘Bugger off, Jacky,’ he said, mildly. He shifted slightly: the bed frame winced and shivered. I could see he was working up to some tremendous pronouncement. ‘How do you think that Trumpy woman gets her hair to stay like that?’

That did it. I went over and pulled his head round to face mine. The pale blue eyes carried a look of resentful surprise.

‘Listen, you big eejit,’ I hissed. ‘Never mind Ivana fucking Trump’s hairdo. What did you do today in McGee’s shop?’

The eyes widened slightly in recognition, and then floated lazily away from mine. ‘The old man caught me taking a packet of Jaffa Cakes.’

‘Why didn’t you take them from Hackett’s? At least your ma settles up with them at the end of the week.’

‘Hackett’s was closed.’

There you have it: Titch’s immortal logic. Hackett’s shop, his usual stomping ground, was closed. So what did he do? He took himself over to McGee’s, and straight into a row with a muscular wee psycho.

‘So what did he say when he caught you with the biscuits?’

Titch sighed. He wanted me to go away now, but he could see there was no dodging the question.

‘Oul McGee saw me putting them inside my coat, and he came over. He said “What do you think you’re doing you thieving bastard?” I s-said I was going to pay for them. He was squeezing my arm till it hurt, Jacky, and he said ‘You were not, you big fat bastard.’ And he kept on squeezing.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘He was hurting my arm, Jacky, so I told him to f-f-fuck off and gave him a push. He skidded and went flying into his tins of tomato soup.’

In the midst of his self-righteous distress, Titch’s shoulders began to heave with laughter at the memory.

‘Did he fall down? Did anyone see?’