I was sitting, at an outside table of a café in Holborn, enjoying a cafetière and a baguette when a guy who appeared homeless asked if he could sit at my table. I told him of course he could. A member of the café staff came out and told the guy, in no uncertain terms, to clear off. I told the café guy to hold on because the man was my guest. He looked me up and down, taking in my perfect, black, three piece suit and impeccable grooming and opened his mouth, presumably to speak. I pre-empted his words by asking him to bring my guest a cup of coffee or whatever drink my guest required with whatever food he requested. The staff member told me that they didn’t do waiter service. I took out my wallet and handed my guest £10 and told him to go in, choose whatever he wanted and join the queue inside and wait to pay. The staff member, I suspect, appalled at the thought of the presence of a member of the great unwashed possibly discouraging disinfected customers immediately asked my guest what he would like. In a moment of sublime inspiration, my guest asked the staff member what they had. Very shortly afterwards, my guest was enjoying a pleasant afternoon sojourn in the London summer afternoon sun. We didn’t speak much, each with enough thoughts of our own to occupy us. I’d told him he didn’t have to rush because I was happy to sit for quite a while longer. The man in my photograph on the cover of this book reminds me of Ernest Hemingway.