On a bus, between Waterloo and Elephant. It’s raining. It’s rush hour. The bus is full of people in wet coats. All the windows are steamed up. I’m standing near the rear doors, just behind the space for prams and wheelchairs. A man, probably in his late 20s, gets on and stands in front of me. Distracted, he looks around before fixing on someone behind me, looking over my shoulder.

The man (in a voice just loud enough to make himself heard): Excuse me – where do I know you from?

A woman (sitting on the raised seats, a couple of rows behind me, in a quiet voice I can’t quite make out): [Was it] … [?]

The man: No, that wasn’t it... (thinks) I know, it was that recovery centre in Croydon.

The woman (quiet, but just about audible): Oh, that’s right. How are you doing now?

The man: Really good, thanks.

The woman: Are you still [off the drugs]?

The man (breaking into a large grin): Nah, I’m completely loaded… Well, I’m getting off here. Nice to see you, anyway. (he turns towards the doors, before looking back at me) Got any change, mate?

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