These days my mum doesn’t let my dad hang around after a gig, so I stuck them in an Uber and joined the Irregulars, plus girlfriends and boyfriends, plus Beverley and her friends in the bar. The manager of The Bull’s Head had been a fan of my dad’s almost as long as my mum, so we were treated to a lock-in and drinks at cost. The band, or at least Daniel and Max, predictably took this as a challenge, as did their and Beverley’s friends – musicians and students – you’d think the manager would have known better.

‘Given he’s such a skinny lad,’ James said after watching Daniel’s boyfriend sink yet another Guinness, ‘you’ve got to ask where it’s all going.’

James was the drummer and so by tradition it was his van that the band tooled around in – this was causing some friction.

‘I don’t want to invoke national stereotypes but I’m bloody dying for a drink here,’ he said staring meaningfully at Daniel and Max. They were less than sympathetic.

‘You should have taken up the sax,’ said Max.

‘You only dare say that cause you’re pure steamin’,’ said James. ‘The world’s full of wannabe sax players, but jazz drums – that’s a vocation.’

Bev’s friends tried to match the jazzmen drink for drink, and as a result had to be poured into the back of James’ van with the rest of the band plus hangers-on. James promised faithfully to see them safely back to their digs. As the van lurched off I noticed that it was riding well low on its suspension and hoped, ironically as it turned out for me, that they didn’t get stopped.

It was breezy out by the river, the cold finding its way down the back of my jacket. It was high tide and I could practically feel Beverley’s mother slapping at the embankment, looking for cracks – nothing malicious, you understand, just doing what comes naturally – so it didn’t surprise me when Bev vaulted onto the parapet and started taking off her clothes.

She turned to look at me, wearing just her knickers and the red silk bra that I knew for a fact she’d nicked from her sister Effra and was two sizes too small.

‘Race you home,’ she shouted and, turning, dove into the river.

I gathered up her clothes and threw them onto the passenger seat of the Asbo before setting off down Barnes High Street at a swift but totally legal speed. I considered using my blues and twos but that would have been cheating. I’d have beaten her home, too, if I hadn’t been pulled over by a pair of uniforms on the Kingston Road ‘on suspicion’ and had to flash my warrant card.