Dancing in the Darkness. Frank Poullain

which was now about to get even sleepier. ‘Hamish’ – the twat with the stutter who played in that weird band – was now a big-time drug dealer. As I sauntered towards the platform, a cluster of policemen with ‘sniffer’ dogs caught me unawares.

      Now, here was a real dilemma. It would have been the easiest (and most simple) thing to simply turn round and miss the train, but I just couldn’t bear to see that ticket wasted. It sounds daft, but that kind of thing crucified me – unless you were brought up in Scotland you’ll probably never understand. Besides, I reasoned with myself, surely they were checking for IRA bombs? That’s what my ‘free-male’ intuition informed me, anyhow. I’d suffered the same momentary panic earlier in the week when news bulletins announced that North London locks-ups were being searched by anti-terrorist squads.

I sucked in that guilty conscience of mine and walked straight past them, before boarding the train and calling Chris on the ‘brick’*. Nervous laughter gushed like cheap Cava at an office party. I had got away with it, though I knew not why or wherefore – just the vague notion that a future of gainful blundering beckoned.

      With my bum bag (or ‘fanny pack’ as they call them stateside) bulging with readies and paraded around my waist like a boxer’s title-weight belt, roaches in each of my jacket pockets and a Filofax crammed with incriminating names, addresses and telephone numbers, I was determined to defy the guardians of justice and reward a morally bankrupt father.

* ‘Brick’ is slang for the large, clumsy early mobile phones.