‘So, come on, how do you know him? He didn’t seem like a natural companion for you.’

‘I don’t really know him, to be fair. He’s just someone I bump into occasionally through my work. Hardly ever see him outside of the office. He had to leave unexpectedly and I’m very glad he did.’

‘Yeah, me too.’

That was a nice thing for her to say.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a chip?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, especially now the big one’s gone.’

As I chomped on my steak, there was an inevitable slowing down in the conversational flow. I was very conscious of it and took a chance with something personal to get the conversation back on course.

‘I saw you at the bar earlier and I reckoned you might be a teacher. You know, with the book and the Doc Martens and the fizzy drink. Am I anywhere near?’

‘No, not even close.’

‘Can I have another guess? Would that be okay?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Does your job involve pottery? You know – making it, selling it, studying it, importing it. Are you in the potting game?’

‘Why would you guess that?’

‘Mainly because of the fringe. I associate geometric haircuts with the arts. You know – David Hockney, Phil Oakey, Jane Brurier – and the Doc Martens screamed the more crafty end of the arty spectrum.’

‘Who the fuck is Jane Brurier?’

‘I’ve no idea, but she sounds right.’

‘And I’ll have you know I’ve worn Doc Martens since I was in my early teens.’

‘I like them. They take a sock very well and help get over the message that you’re serious about things.’

‘Yeah. My bed isn’t covered with cuddly toys, you know.’

‘Mine neither. So, what do you do for a job, then?’

‘I used to manage a restaurant in Brighton.’

‘I fucking knew it.’

‘But I packed that in about four years ago. I work from home now selling shit on eBay.’

‘Duck shit?’

‘Not as yet, but if it comes into vogue I’ll definitely consider it. I mainly sell vintage clothes, designer clothes, mid-century lamps, ornaments – that kind of thing. Good saleable stuff. I have a good eye for stuff that will sell.’

‘What sort of a price could you get for what I’m wearing?’

She looked me up and down, taking in the dark grey suit I had bought from Debenhams a few years ago, my Marks & Spencer’s cotton-rich white shirt and my brown suede desert boots from Clarks.

‘Eight pounds,’ she declared.

We both laughed, mainly because of the rhythm of things between us.

‘It’s the first time I’ve sat in this part of the pub,’ I announced. ‘I usually come here when the football’s on and watch it in the other bar with my mates. Do you like football?’