It had been one of those mornings that made you want to make organic bread in a little hut in the wilderness and, only every now and again, forage for mushrooms. My friend had gone and done it. For a time, he raved about it. Then he got attacked by a Finnish fire-eating amputee and now he’s back working for Deloitte. On weekends he cleans an old Rover while his wife steams the cabbage. They don’t have dessert. It’s calorific.

Sometimes – on the lonely days – I think of my friend and it makes me feel nauseous. And yet, one is pulled in the direction of the ex-forager’s life. There was a time when the centre of gravity was hedonistic fun. Those nihilistic days. Remember them? Stood in clubs, watching bands, eating pork chops, sipping sambucas, chasing skirt; failing.

Ah, my little mutton lioness, I never thought I would be here. Sat in front of a lonely fireplace on a Sunday morning. Thinking of Jim. And yet, here I am, welling up. I could have been somebody. I could have been a German man in tight pants with a fabulous mane of flowing blonde locks, surrounded by wealthy Swedish models combing it back while delicately inserting blocks of Swiss chocolate into my gob and spending my inflated bank account on chunky lines of cocaine. These dreams we maintain, eh. These fucking dreams! Now, get me a beer. And pass me that self-help book. The one about freezing your arse off. I’m hungry and I need to scheme. Tomorrow is a better day. Tomorrow, I’ll be a better man. Tomorrow, I’ll be like Jim.