As I stood by the bus lane at the top of Muswell Hill, watching the red behemoths shunt their way round the roundabout, I devised a notion of moving to the country. Rebecca and I would start our own family, up north, well away from the grime and aggression. We’d find a cottage on the moors, an isolated spot with no ready access; just the two of us.

‘Oi, mate. Push over.’ Some random no-mark shoved me back against the shop front, jolting me out of my reverie. I spotted my reflection in the glass of the florist’s window and had to look twice. I hardly recognised myself and laughed when I realised the stranger in dirty trainers was in fact me. I didn’t want to overwhelm Rebecca with a totally new appearance so had decided to mix and match fashion statements.

I pushed the door open and strolled into the flower shop.

‘A bunch of your finest. It’s for my fiancée,’ I crowed at the eager shop assistant. ‘Nothing but the best.’ I drew out a wad of banknotes, five hundred pounds in total, and thumbed through the stash. Payment in cash would ensure top-class service.

I had got used to paying for everything this way. Credit card payments and cheques could be traced. There was also a certain satisfaction at the respect such large casual bundles invoked.

‘Perhaps you could pop in a few extra red roses. Red is her favourite colour. Nothing but the best,’ I repeated while carefully selecting a gift card from a display. I took out a black biro from my jacket pocket, which had started to leak through into the lining.

The young sales assistant handed me another pen, her shy smile barely visible behind a droopy fringe. Quite a pretty young thing and deserving of the ten-pound tip I slipped her way. Perhaps I might visit her, before my marriage, and offer to take her for a drink, somewhere discreet.

With the huge bouquet held carefully upright in both hands, my next visit was to the off-licence next door. I had become a bit of a wine connoisseur, having spent a large amount of what I termed my vigil time browsing vintners’ catalogues.

‘Saint-Émilion Grand Cru,’ I said out loud to myself. Perfect. I lifted the rascal of the vineyard down from the top shelf and withdrew the stash of notes once more from my pocket.

By the time I was back on the street, I was still half an hour early. I walked the short distance to Rebecca’s flat and pressed myself hard against the wall opposite the entrance and counted down the minutes. As I stood quietly, patiently, in the shadows, I thought I saw Rebecca, a couple of times, pull back her blinds and look down at me. She would be anticipatory, excited, but I’d make her wait.