Before Fred could slam a short hard left hook into my aching body, or my ringing head, I whipped a short left uppercut on to the point of his chin, jerking back his head just as the buzzer went to end the third and final round.

We fell into each other’s arms, totally spent, both laughing.

When we broke from the embrace, I stood there bent double, fighting for breath. I could hear the sound of skipping ropes, the business news on the TV by the treadmills, and a trainer chanting yoga instructions. When I looked up, Fred was taking off his battered headguard and his long silver hair was tumbling down – the hair of a veteran pirate. He pulled out his mouthguard.

‘You’re so lucky to be training,’ he said.

He lifted a glove in salute and I touched it with my own glove.

‘Good,’ he told me. ‘But keep those elbows tucked in and don’t be a statue. When you’ve thrown your punches, get out of there. Don’t stand around taking pictures. Even when you’re knackered. Especially when you’re knackered.’

My breath was slowly returning. ‘It’s hard,’ I managed.

Fred laughed. ‘It’s supposed to be hard. If it was easy, then everyone would do it.’ He patted my back. ‘Warm down with thirty minutes on the bike and don’t forget your stretching.’

Fred climbed out of the ring. He wandered over to the sound system and put on The Jam. This was Smithfield Amateur Boxing Club, and Fred ran the place, so he got to choose the music. ‘Going Underground’ began to belt out.

I was feeling better already. My ribs might be sore in the morning but the ringing in my head had already calmed down and nothing else had sustained serious damage. It was not the pain itself that wore you out so much as the shock of being hit. Yet I was always surprised how little being punched in the face actually hurt. It was those body shots that killed you.

Then I was aware of someone watching me.

He was by the free weights, and had gloves on, those fingerless gloves for lifting weights, and his meaty shoulders looked as though he had lifted a lot of them. You don’t see many Asians that heavily into their weights. But I guess you see more than you used to.

He held my gaze for a long moment, then removed his gloves and walked to the cupboards where Fred stored the boxing kit. He took out a black headguard and a pair of bright yellow gloves. Then he walked back across the gym and climbed into the ring. And by now I knew him. Just poking out of the top of his training vest I could see the bruise where I had punched him in the heart because he’d laughed at my dog.

‘I’ll fight you,’ he said, pulling on the gloves.