Jake has lunch every day. He’s very particular about it. He says he becomes all light-headed by three o’clock if he doesn’t get out for some air and a sandwich. I know which sandwich bar he uses and it’s only a few hundred yards from the office. Opposite Dunston & Bradley there’s a tiny garden, not big enough to be classed as a park. It’s surrounded by a low brick wall and has a few stoic cherry trees—bare and spindly at this time of year—plus a couple of trendy steel benches that look like the cutting foils from Remington shavers folded over. I take up my position on one of the benches, as yet unoccupied, which is obscured by a few hardy shrubs and a bit of the wall. I make myself comfortable—well, as comfortable as I can—and train my gaze on the revolving front door of Jake’s office. I wish I owned a pair of binoculars. My eyesight has never been that great and I won’t wear glasses because they make me look exactly like my mother. After about thirty seconds, I’m already getting bored, when a tramp comes and sits down next to me. He’s wearing several overcoats tied round the middle with string. He has a hat on with no top and plastic bags tied over his shoes. I think he’s possibly the smelliest person in the whole world.

‘Spare change for a cup of tea, love?’

I hate being accosted by tramps. Especially when they ask for a cup of tea. If they really wanted a cup of tea, I’d have no problem in stumping up. But I always have that sneaking suspicion that they want to spend it on meths or crack cocaine and then I’m very reluctant to feed their habit.

‘Spare change for a cup of tea, love?’

I turn downwind a little. ‘No, sorry.’

I have lots of change and this makes me feel awful. The tramp opens a carrier bag and gets out a can of Strongbow cider. I edge further along the bench.

‘Do you want a drink, love?’

Now how dreadful do I feel? I couldn’t be charitable enough to give him fifty pence and he’s still willing to share his last tinny with me. ‘No. No, thanks.’

‘Waiting for your boyfriend?’

‘Yes.’ In a manner of speaking.

If he keeps on, I’m going to have to move, yet this is my best spot. Why does nothing ever go to plan in my life?