‘Hey, sexy, I wanna play with you. Can I get your phone number?’

I stop and turn my head. They’re wearing school blazers and look about fourteen, fifteen at most. ‘Sure. Is it mainly Saturdays you need? Only weekdays can be tricky.’ The boy stares at me, a mixture of surprise and panic on his face. Presumably he’s used the line before, yet curiously has never had a taker. ‘My number … you need a babysitter, yeah?’

He mutters under his breath while his mate snorts with laughter, and I hoist up my shorts and keep walking. I expect Tom to be in the café by now, but he’s stopped to give money to the old lady with the trolley. Her skin is lined with wrinkles, but she has the brightest blue eyes which twinkle when she realises we’re together. I know the look – it’s the one Dot used to give me whenever she saw me with Tom. It says ‘you’ve got a good one there’. Poor Dot. She comes across as strong and feisty but I can tell she’s lonely. I hope whoever Mr Neeson employs next takes the time to chat with her.

I go over and something moves in the trolley. Amongst the bags of clothes is a little white dog curled up in a basket. I pat him and he nuzzles his head into my hand and licks my fingers. His thin body is trembling, perhaps from the cold or old age.

‘Do either of you need anything?’ I ask. ‘A hot drink or …?’

She smiles and speaks with a soft Welsh lilt. ‘No, thank you, my lovely. I think your friend is waiting for you.’ She gestures towards Tom, who has taken off and is now holding the café door open.

I stroke the dog again and say goodbye to her, hoping they’ll be OK, and Tom checks an imaginary watch. ‘I know you’ve only got little legs but hurry up, would you? I’m wasting away here.’ I walk over and jab him in the side as I pass under his outstretched arm.

‘Ow! What is it with you and bruising guys’ ribs?’

I give him a look and he makes a show of rubbing his side. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but I bruise like a peach.’

‘You wouldn’t be complaining if you were choking.’

Tom closes the door behind us and muses. ‘True. If I had a sausage roll stuck in my windpipe I wouldn’t be saying anything at all.’

The room is warm but basic: a dozen or so wooden tables with chairs and fluorescent strip lighting overhead. There are no tablecloths, curtains or pictures, just a blackboard menu behind the counter, covered with tiny white writing. Apart from a tired-looking couple with three young boys, the place is empty.

I squint at the menu. ‘Well, I think Mr Neeson was right – I learned a valuable lesson that day.’

‘Don’t hide in cupboards and jump out at your boss?’

I laugh, remembering the shocked look on Mr Neeson’s face. ‘I think it was me handing him the ketchup that did it.’