‘You know what, it was exactly where you’re standing. She was stood stock-still, just like you, singing a song about the Royal Mail or a cruise ship – something like that. It was hard to tell because her singing was so shit. But when I thought around how pretty she was I was very impressed.’

‘Well, you seem happy and I have to say you’re looking the business.’

‘Yeah, things are looking up, and I’ve got a good feeling about your prospects, too. You should buy some cologne or at least think around doing something like that. I can smell romance in the air.’

‘I might just do that. See you around.’

I walk on with a spring in my step and a good connection in my account. The idea of a romance is often a good source of hope for me.

I’m sure a lot of people have these little daydreams and flights of fancy to fill the passing of time, but I don’t know if they realize how important they can be to inject a bit of balance and optimism into your life. I need a lot of that just now, especially given that, on the face of it, my life is bordering on the shit.

I’m in my car, driving to a meeting with a bloke called John McCoy. The prospect fills me with panic and dread. It’s a make-or-break meeting for me and I just want it to be over and done with. At the moment I’m being held up by a bloke who’s spilled a huge bag of onions on the zebra crossing and is unwilling to give up on them. I parp my horn in frustration, then silently apologize to the man and each and every one of the stray onions.

Let me rewind and explain.

2

About ten days ago I went for a drink after work with a bloke called Brendan. He’d been asking to meet up for ages and I’d run out of excuses. He works for a private investigators company, Cityside Investigations, who are clients of the firm of solicitors where I’ve been employed for the past two years. I don’t know him that well, but we always have a little chat when he’s in the office to pick up documents and flirt with the secretaries. He’s about ten years older than me, skinny and short with wavy side-parted hair that gives him a slightly Tudor edge. He usually wears a blue or grey sports jacket with a beige turtleneck and deep blue, A-line denim jeans that sit slightly high above his pointy brown leather shoes. A hint of novelty sock is always deliberately on offer. His face is plain-looking, his nose a bit thin and sharp, the overall effect being that of a rolled oat. Yes – a very oat-y look that I often associate with Yorkshire squaddies.