“What’s your name again, darling?”

“Rhoda.”

“Rhoda, this is Jack Taylor, on undercover work for the Irish guards.”

She gave an encompassing smile. She’d heard every tired line a parade of tired men ever pedalled. He slapped her arse, said,

“Go powder your nose, hon. This is guy stuff.”

He watched her walk away, then asked,

“So Jack…want to ride that?”

London offers nigh on most things a person could crave. E.B. White wrote of New York,

“Above all else, it offers you the chance to be lucky.”

London doesn’t quite make the same pitch, but it’s in the neighbourhood. It never ceases to surprise. I wanted education.

My reading, expansive if not exhaustive, was haphazard. I wanted it formalised. Enrolled in night classes at London College. Taking literature and philosophy. At least I had a beard. Got a scarf in Oxfam and I was in the student mode. I wasn’t the oldest, but I certainly appeared the most battered. London in November is a rough deal. Walking up Ladbroke Grove with that wind howling in your face, you are deep frozen. My bedsit was the last word in forlorn. A bed, a chair, electric heater and a shower. Oh yes, a hot plate. It had flock wallpaper, I kid you not. To compound the misery, I’d been reading Patrick Hamilton, Hangover Square. Grim fare. He wrote, “To those whom God has deserted is given a gas fire in Earls Court.” I could have hacked Earls Court.

There is a magical Irish word, sneachta. Pronounce it “shneackta”, heavy on the guttural. It means snow. My first night of college, there were shitfuls of that. Harsh and unyielding. I was wearing black 501s, thermals, work boots, plaid shirt, denim jacket. Over that, I’d the leather coat and a watchcap. Still I was cold. Remember Hill Street Blues, the undercover guy who yelled “dogbreath” at perps? That’s how I looked. Hardly enticing, yet I scored. Leastways, I thought I did. Nothing was further from my mind. Ann Henderson, in Galway, had crushed my heart. I didn’t believe I had the mileage for another woman.