I know that I locked the back door but I’m going to check it again anyway. Street kids always a danger. Nowadays they’ve got all those fancy acids for rotting the crud right off their teeth…

I went calling for my friend Epstein. Don’t worry, not Epstein, the infamous. It’s just that his name was Geoffrey and we called him that as a sort of a tease.

‘Ulster Volunteer Force. We’ve come for you, you bastard.’

No answer. Undeterred, I stormed the stairs, in search of somewhere suitable for the dispatching of a well-formed stool.

As the mechanism struggled to flush the particularly stubborn turd I began composing a simple hymn…

‘Force the woman gently. From her hindquarters infil-traaate.’

The melodious strain flew my frontal lobe and a sudden hunch for hunger assailed me. I would sequester in the downstairs kitchenette, perhaps being lucky a half-dry crust might find me.

With my pale, limpid, handsome face leant flat against the ancient tiling, I peered into cobwebbed cupboards. Lentils lentils lentils. Fuck it. I’ll have another drink.