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pigeons had come down for a warm and had got too close. Ah well, one less tourist attraction.
    I peeled off my clothes and took a long shower – it would be a long time before I took a bath again, and certainly not round at Sunil’s – and treated myself to a proper shave with hot water and a razor. I had been using my travelling battery shaver while house-sitting and, despite what Victor Kiam says, nothing beats hot water and cold steel.
    I had just time to pull on a clean shirt and a pair of chinos – Springsteen’s favourites as they show up his black hairs to best effect – before the local news came on the TV. I flicked on the box and took a can of lager from the fridge. The news finished at the same time as the lager. It hadn’t been a busy day in London town, but there was no mention of anybody falling through windows in Leytonstone.
    I opened another can and wondered what to do next. About the only practical thing I came up with was that I probably ought to start smoking again. That was more than a tad retro, so I distracted myself and put some music on.
    I fed a CD of Hugh Masekela into the machine and fought back the urge to get my trumpet out and play along, ruminating on the injustice of a world that had taken so long to discover him. No doubt somebody had held a torch for him. As a student, with everybody into punk in a big way, I’d regularly paid over the odds for Chuck Mangione imports. So much music; so little time. And always the social pressure to keep up to date and with the scene.
    I remembered the larder was bare and took a snap decision (actually, ‘going snap’ on a decision was the latest buzzword) to hit the local late-night deli. I picked up my wallet and a bright blue blouson with ‘Status Quo – 19th Farewell Concert’ on the back in day-glo gold. You see what I mean about having to keep up with things.
    I was almost at the corner of Stuart Street when a car slowed up into the corner of my eye. I was either being kerb-crawled or a bunch of Quo fans were after the jacket.
    It was Nassim in a battered red Nissan, and if he was a Quo fan, he’d never admitted it. I had never had him down as a kerb-crawler either, but from the state of the car, it looked as if it had had a good kicking. He leaned over and opened the passenger door so he could yell at me.
    â€˜Hey you, Angel. I’m coming to see and you are leaving. You said urgent so I am come straight away.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘The house is okay, isn’t it? You haven’t set fire to nothing, have you?’
    I put on my best butter-wouldn’t-melt expression and stuck my head inside the car.
    â€˜Sometimes, Mr Nassim,’ I said politely, ‘I think you have a very low opinion of me.’
    He shuffled a bit at that, shrinking into his green trench-coat, which someone had told him was Yuppily fashionable.
    â€˜And anyway,’ I went on, ‘the insurance will cover it.’
    â€˜Well, that at least is something,’ he said. Then: ‘Cover what? Hey, Angel, wait …’
    But I’d closed the car door by then and was heading for the deli.
    I waved to him to follow me in, and he snuffed the Nissan’s engine and climbed out. Then he got back in and came out holding a mobile phone, which he crammed into a coat pocket.
    â€˜Is that a mobile phone or are you just pleased to see me?’ I asked as I held the deli door open for him.
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜Skip it. How long have you been driving that piece of rust?’ I nodded to his car.
    â€˜You think I’m going to park the BMW in Brick Lane?’ He had a point.
    â€˜Now what’s this about insurance? Why do I need insurance?’
    I handed him a wire basket and put a box of eggs in it. ‘Not you, your cousin Sunil in Leytonstone.’
    â€˜What have you done? You said you would look after things. That’s why I give you three weeks’ rent