Falling out of the tube at Platform Three, one grasps about the inside back pocket; toffee wrapper here, ball of lint there, forgotten 20p piece, and… one London Travel Card, because the Oyster still isn’t valid on National Rail for us poor London Commuters. An informal dinner with clients should be fun; certainly, it should never be a chore. Tapas with brandy just isn’t what I craved this evening. All I wanted was to stay a minute longer, to hold her close, and listen to her sleep.

For some reason, the ride from East Putney, ex BR station, to Wimbledon, land of wanna-be Sloaney and new Chattering Classes has never felt quite so long. Nor has it ever been quite so empty. Not of people; that line is always busy, but devoid of character. You could have cute the atmosphere with a blunt piece of string.

I’ve enough money left for a Black Cab home and a coffee before I stumble off into the night. A trip to Costa, and almost four dollars later, I’ve got the smallest thing I could call “coffee” and not be an espresso. Latte, in a collection of three paper cups, stacked one in the other. There’s a railing by the front of Centre Court, above the steps, down to the Taxi rank; from those little railings, you can just perch and look at the cars whizz past, the taxis, the busses, and people on foot trampling past. Above and behind, Footlights has the outside spots on, burning hard into the cold evening, right up into the sky. The florist at the station entrance sweeps up the detritus of the day’s work, and washes the pavement down with a final bucket of clean water, running down into the edge of the stairs, swishing around the soles of my shoes.

Damn, it’s cold out tonight.

Pulling the edge of my overcoat up, the wind bites hard, and I remember my last scarf, and loss of; I’m still feeling too guilty to replace it. I hope she likes it, all the same. In any case, it never suited me as much as it does her. I looked scruffy in it; she looks a darling in it. That she were here to share “cheap coffee” - matter of time, I suppose.

Standing here with REM blaring into my ears at 11pm on a Monday night, warm paper cups between my hands, and three layers of wool between me and the outside, it almost feels sane. Just standing about, watching the people rush about, the smell of pubs and bars at closing wafting across the street, and the blare of car horns and scooters racing along with pillion passenger teenagers.

It almost feels like home.