Single To Morden

By Spike Evans

How do you solve a problem like Sarah?

Particularly when she's buggered off down to London, neglecting to leave a forwarding address?

And how do you persuade her ex-boyfriend Tim – just this once – to take 'no' for an answer?

Single To Morden is the riotous story of one man's refusal to give up on the cause of true love. It follows hapless northerner Tim Howden as he combs the capital for his runaway ex, armed only with the knowledge that she's living “somewhere near the Northern Line”. Each chapter explores a different Northern Line station and its surroundings in this tale of tortured emotions and takeaway curries, while frequent flashbacks reveal what makes Sarah such a hot tip to win What Girlfriend?'s award for "Most Unsuitable Bunk-Up... Ever."

You can be sure that Sarah will materialise, of course – but when? Will it be on day one, in Edgware? Or day forty-three, halfway across Clapham Common? Will it be in a tattoo parlour in Camden, or sheltering under Freddie Mercury's crotch on the Tottenham Court Road? And what'll happen to Tim's mental state in the meantime?

One thing's for certain – en route to conjugal bliss, Tim's going to have his fair share of London's more colourful ne'er-do-wells to contend with, not to mention a few hand-picked representatives of its lunatic fringe. In Golders Green, they'll think he's a Nazi impersonator. In Euston, they'll think he's a terrorist. And in Highgate, they’ll think he’s the reincarnated spirit of Rudolf Nureyev.

It probably won't help that Tim's being 'assisted' by best friend Jeremy – a cross between Lord Byron, Jimi Hendrix and Ben Dover. And the fact that Tim might be falling in love – with his hotel receptionist, of all people – looks set to complicate matters too.

In the end, true love does find a way, but hardly the way that Tim expects. And even the dissolute Jeremy proves he's got a heart – even if, like so many of his vital organs, it appears to be crammed into his underpants.

Part romantic comedy, part urban travelogue and part treatise on Why We Shouldn't Touch The Minibar, Single To Morden is every Londoner's quintessential commuting novel. Anyone who's visited London, lived in London or had an erotic dream about Boris Johnson will empathise with the culture shock of a small town boy forced to confront the gritty (and, all too often, sticky) realities of metropolitan life.

The rush hour will never be the same again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spike Evans
• Release date: Apr 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310645976

Spike Evans

Spike Evans was brought up in Yorkshire. He is married and lives with his wife, Jo, and their cat, Fred, in a tiny terraced house crammed with ancient (largely non-functioning) musical instruments. 'Single To Morden' is his first novel; its not-quite follow-ups, 'Cheek' and 'Apeman' are available on... well, you know, a certain well-known book retailing site. The evil one. Ahem.

Book preview

Single To Morden

Copyright 2014 Spike Evans

Published by Spike Evans at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

edgware

'So you actually want me to beg?'

'I want you to go.'

'Right. I'm begging. I'm begging you – on my knees – to tell me where Sarah is.'

'Get up, Tim, for God's sake.'

'Not until you tell me where Sarah is.'

'I'm sorry, Tim, but Sarah's left. She's gone. Now just get up, will you? You look ridiculous down there.'

I did look ridiculous, of course. Ever since I'd dropped to my knees, I'd been horribly aware that I appeared to be on the verge of giving Sarah's mum some weird, inverted form of blowjob. I tried to look as dignified as possible, hoping no stray blowjob-related vibes had been detected by Mrs Benson. 'Please, Mrs B. I just need to know where she is.'

'All you need to know is that she's left,' she replied, 'and she won't be coming back. Sarah doesn't want to see you.'

'But why?'

'Seriously, Timothy – use your common sense.' I didn't care for the way Mrs Benson emphasised the word 'common', nor for the scarcely-concealed contempt with which she'd peered down at my Sexy Puffs t-shirt. 'Maybe it's time you started thinking about your future. You're nearly twenty-six. Isn't it time you tried making something of your life?'

I've no idea what she meant by that. I was making something of my life, wasn't I? She should have been thrilled to have the man voted Vinyl Bitch's 'Dealer Of The Year' (North East Region) for a future son-in-law. It was a point I was about to raise in my defence, when the doorbell rang and Sarah's mother – possibly fearing another near-fellatio experience – fled the room.

For a second, I hadn't known what to do – whether to make a semi-dignified exit via the French windows, or hang around for a further bout of self-debasement – when suddenly something at eye-level attracted my attention. A couple of dozen words in Sarah's angular handwriting, scribbled on the pad by the phone. Across the top of the paper she'd written 'LONDON'. Underneath, vigorously crossed out, were a couple of addresses – one in Kentish Town, one in Balham – and a handful of figures; rent prices, telephone numbers, a few others I couldn't read. And there, at the bottom of the sheet, quite separate from the rest and accompanied by a large tick: 'Flatshare – £630 pcm incl. – nice area – one month deposit – handy for Northern line.' Well, that was it, then. That was where Sarah, my girlfriend of the past eight years, had gone.

London.

I've never had much time for London, myself. You tend not to, when you're from the north. My father, who'd lived down south for a couple of years, had always pictured London as a terrifying combination of Sodom, Gomorrah and Barnsley – only with a superior bus network and better access to whelks. He'd loved shellfish, my dad. It was one of the reasons he'd moved to Whitby with mum, back in the seventies.

Shellfish killed them both in the end, mind. According to the Coroner's report, a half-eaten tray of cockles had been discovered in the driver's footwell of the rental car they'd been touring the Trossachs in – and a small plastic fork, clenched in dad's left hand. He probably died happy, then, hurtling round a blind corner with a mouthful of cockles – although if there is an afterlife, I don't imagine he's thrilled about how I'm deploying the last of the inheritance money. Unlike my mother, he never thought much of Sarah ('a bit flighty for you, son'), and I doubt whether he'd think much of Jeremy's plan to bring her home.

Ah yes. Jeremy's Plan. Well, I was a bit sceptical about The Plan myself, actually – mostly because Jeremy, despite being my closest friend, has never been noted for the quality of his strategic thinking. But as summer turned to autumn, I found that three Sarah-free months had started taking their toll on my capacity for rational thought – and that, plus the considerable quantity of beer I'd consumed on the night in question, somehow conspired to make The Plan seem almost... feasible.

'It's easy,' Jeremy had said, passing me my fifth pint of the evening. 'I mean, we know she's living in London, right?'

'Right.'

'Near the Northern Line.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Well, that shortens your odds, doesn't it? I mean, how many stations are there on the Northern Line? Twenty-five? Thirty, tops.'

I'd drawn deeply upon my beer, weighing Jeremy's words. They generally acquired a greater depth and clarity around the fifth pint, but here I found myself struggling. 'Yes, mate, and that's all very well, but what am I supposed to do? Go from house to house, knocking on doors?'

I closed my eyes and tried imagining myself doing it – yanking open door after door like a nightmarish, life-sized advent calendar. 'London's a big place, you know – really big,' I finally muttered, hoping this would both close the subject and establish beyond doubt my expertise in all matters London-y.

Jeremy extended a baboon-like arm, gently clamped my right shoulder and cooed into my ear. 'Look, you soft bugger. She's gone somewhere near the Northern Line, right? So she can commute. She wants to be handy for the Underground.'

'So?'

'So. So. So chances are, every day – twice a day – five days a week – she'll be using her local Tube station. All you've got to do' – and here he drained his pint in silent triumph – 'is get yourself an Oyster Card, a great big bunch of roses and a Tube map, and wait for her to shimmy along. One day at every station should do the trick. And then, hey presto, instant tearful reunion. You could start writing that novel you're always banging on about, while you're down there. London might inspire you. Whitby hasn't, has it?' He regarded me darkly for a moment. 'I wouldn't go if I were you, though.'

'Why not?'

'Well, for a start, Tooting's on the Northern Line.'

Jeremy's one of the few people who knows about my fear of Tooting; about the way the mere mention of the place has caused me uncontrollable facial tics since the age of twelve. 'Oh yes. Tooting's there twice – Bec and Broadway. And if you're down in London, you'll miss the darts league. It starts again in a fortnight.' Dave the barman, who had been following our conversation intently, nodded in silent agreement. The honour of the Fat Ox rests, to no small degree, on its regulars' prowess at the oche. 'Your round, isn't it?'

The regulars all came out, though – pints in hand – to wave me off. Dave the barman, Wes, Tall Paul, Lenny Jones, Fat Arthur, Lakey-Boy. Even Big Rob. Then Jeremy ran me to the station in one of his dad's furniture vans. For someone whose emotional range normally extends no further than 'lust' – or occasionally 'drunken lust' – he'd seemed unusually sentimental. 'I'll miss you while you're down in the Smoke,' he'd announced, pulling the van round on to Belle Vue Terrace.

'Cheers, Jez. I'll miss you, too.'

'I'll make sure no one sits on your stool at the Ox.'

'Thanks.'

'And I'll sign on for you, at the Job Centre.'

I'd winced, as I had every time Jeremy had mentioned this element of The Plan. 'I'm still not happy about pretending to be unemployed. I've got a job. I deal in rare and exquisite vinyl from the post-punk era.'

'From which you barely scrape a pittance,' Jeremy had added. 'And you're hardly going to be brokering any major deals while you're trolling round the Smoke, are you?'

'Maybe not, but–'

'So you'll need me to sign on for you. So your rent gets paid while you're away.'

'But it'll make me a benefit fraudster,' I heard myself whine. 'I'll be forever checking under my bed for Dominic Littlewood and Gloria Hunniford.'

Jeremy had shrugged. 'A small price to pay, mate.' He brought the van to a squealing halt in front of the station. 'And it won't be for long. You'll probably find Sarah within the week. And if it's longer, I'll get some time off work and come help.'

'Cheers, Jez. I appreciate that.'

I did appreciate it, too – particularly since Jeremy's never really seen eye to eye with Sarah. Then again, being six foot three and fond of sunglasses, he doesn't see eye to eye with many people.

'And if we still can't find her, we can always get our ends away with a few horny southern lasses.' He leered his most wolfish leer and jumped down from the cab. 'She likes a bit of Yorkshire rough, your average London female.'

I suppressed a further wince. It's different for Jeremy, of course. He's never been in love. And I've no intention of 'getting my end away' with anyone – not when I've sworn to forsake all others; not when there's still a chance I can get Sarah back. I mean, it's hardly the first time we've broken up and true love, the real thing, will always find a way. This belief, of course, like most of my 'mental deficiencies', is something Jeremy attributes to three years of 'brain-softening' university education. But he kept his more trenchant observations to a respectful minimum as we waited on the platform. And then the train whistle had blown, he'd passed me my bags – and a 'surprise' four-pack of Löwenbräu, for the trip – and that was it. I was gone – en route for London, Sarah, and life-long happiness.

London, Sarah, and life-long happiness. Well, I've already found one of them. London. I've found the first bit of it, anyway – Edgware, right at the top of the Northern Line – and I can't exactly say I'm bowled over. I didn't see much of it when I arrived last night, but even if you ignore this morning's insidious drizzle, it's obvious that Edgware's a bit of a dump – a decaying low-rise sprawl of shops and houses, inhabited by a grim-looking assortment of souls, none of them Sarah. I cast an eye over the damp commuters elbowing their way through the heavy doors of the Underground station, but not one of the girls walking past remotely matches the image of Sarah in my mind.

It doesn't help that I happen to be picturing Sarah naked and in bed, toying with a family-sized bag of Maltesers. It's eight years since we started going out, but every time I imagine Sarah undressed I still find myself going weak at the knees – and I imagine her undressed a lot. There's something about her, and it's not just the way she looks – her almost Nordic colouring, her cobalt eyes and trim, athletic figure. No, it's her presence, too. It's as though she's got a tiny gyroscope inside her somewhere, constantly adjusting her disposition to a state of perfect, shaggable equilibrium.

'Sang-froid, the French call it,' Jeremy had once declared, swirling the last quarter-inch of lager around the bottom of his glass. 'Composure. Chilled-out-ness. Very sexy, in the right lass. Of course, it literally translates as 'cold blood' – a point you'd do well to remember when considering your future happiness, young Timothy.' It didn't matter, though – and it still doesn't. I still want to shag Sarah all the time – including here, now, on a wet Monday morning in Edgware. It's a state of affairs probably exacerbated by the relatively small quantity of shagging we managed when we were an item. No – the sex never lost its novelty, even if the arguments and recriminations and Sarah's random fits of pique eventually wore a bit thin. I'm trying my best not to think about them, though, as I watch the rush hour's final stragglers converging on Edgware's unlovely little Tube station. Then I turn and stare along Station Road, past the nail bar and Paddy Power, both closed, facing the oncoming rain. No Sarah there, though. My stomach grumbles and I pat my coat pockets. And no Maltesers either.

I sigh inwardly. I should have thought of Maltesers when I was packing my 'Sarah' bag two nights ago. It was another of Jeremy's ideas – to bring a little goodie bag with me, something to break the ice with Sarah when I run into her. 'Nothing slushy,' he'd counselled. 'And nothing that'll make her think you've become a certifiable mentalist since she gave you the elbow.'

Eventually we'd settled on Scoobs (the stuffed Scooby-Doo toy I've had since I was five), a framed photo of me and Sarah at last year's T In The Park, and a handful of specially compiled CD's. 'You don't reckon she'd prefer some Thin Lizzy, do you?' Jeremy had asked, the tip of his Rothmans casting a malevolent glow over my musical selection. Ever since the age of fifteen, Jeremy's been unhealthily devoted to the memory of Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy, believing their output to be a musical reinterpretation of the Kama Sutra, the Anarchist Cookbook and the Book of Common Prayer – all rolled into one. 'At least she'll know you still want to shag her, if you slip her a bit of Phil. Christ knows what she'll make of Morrissey. It's not exactly a love song, is it – Every Day Is Like Sunday?'

'It's how I feel, though, Jez. When she's not around. Depressed. Isolated. Sunday-ish.'

'What about Scoobs, then? Sarah never struck me as the 'teddy bear' type.'

'Scoobs isn't a bear,' I said, retrieving the threadbare hound from Jeremy's non-cigarette hand and gently bedding him down at the bottom of my bag. 'Sarah's always had a soft spot for him. She kidnapped him once and made me buy her a bottle of Calvin Klein's Eternity as a ransom. She threatened to cut off one of his ears if I didn't come up with the goods.'

'So she's sentimentally attached to the little chap, is she?' Jeremy had said, wedging my iPod charger between Scoobs' legs. 'Well, with wee Scooby on the team you're bound to get her back, aren't you?'

Looking down, I discover that I've been unconsciously fondling Scoobs' ear through the top of the carrier bag. I check my watch. Nine o'clock exactly. Well, if Sarah lived in Edgware – and if she was going to work by Tube – then I guess she'd have commuted by now. And if she'd come within fifty yards of the Tube station, then I'd have spotted her – with or without Scooby's help.

I pull my coat – rain-sodden and twice its normal weight – further around me. It's a daft one to be wearing; an East German border guard's coat, the one I usually reserve for Manchester record fairs so that Joy Division diehards will accept me as part of the brotherhood. Jeremy thought I should bring it down to London so I'd 'look tasty – or at least off-puttingly eccentric' and prevent anyone hassling me as I lurked outside a succession of suburban Tube stations. I don't look 'tasty', though, a quick glance in HSBC's window assures me. No – I look like an escaped mental patient. I sigh and glance at my watch again. One minute past nine. By my reckoning, it'll be another eight or nine hours before this morning's commuters will start wending their way – shagged out, hungry – back through the Tube station ticket barriers and home. Therefore, I can reckon on getting back to the hotel in, what, around eleven hours? Eleven hours – assuming they've got a free room when I get there. Bloody hell.

'Get yourself a room at a Happi-Lodge or something.' That'd been Jeremy's advice when we were discussing cheap hotels in his dad's workshop last week. 'They're a bit plastic-y, but they've all got bars. And you can get proper porn on the telly. Plus, they're dead cheap and they're not too bothered if the odd towel goes walkies. Big Rob stays in them all the time when he's touring with bands. It's all he's given me for Christmas, these last three years – Happi-Lodge towels and dressing gowns.'

I suppose it was the tacit approval of Big Rob, Jeremy's über-cool older brother, that had made me choose the Happi-Lodge hotel when I arrived in Edgware last night. And, true enough, they'd found me a comfortable room on the fifth floor with an unrivalled view of the Peugeot dealership on the southbound A5 – in addition to looking after my bags after I checked out this morning, just in case I needed a room again tonight.

Even more remarkably, the pretty, dark-haired Scottish lass sitting at the Reception desk actually seems to recognise me when I stagger across the foyer shortly before eight o'clock in the evening, despite the fact that I'm drenched from my evening vigil outside the Underground. 'Hello, Mr Howden,' she says brightly, as my rain-sodden elbows descend on to the counter. 'How was your day?'

How was my day? My cold, wet Sarah-free day of trudging the streets of Edgware; of greasy, lukewarm pasties from Greggs The Bakers; of aching feet, crushing tedium and suspicious glances. Quite possibly the first of many such days, friendless and disconsolate and quietly going bananas in a town that's always given me the heebie-jeebies. I struggle to find the appropriate words. 'Mm. Not fabulous.'

'Oh, I'm sorry about that.' The receptionist does look sorry, too. 'Will you be wanting room 51 again tonight? I made sure it wasn't given to anyone else. And I've kept an eye on your bags.' She reaches behind the desk and retrieves them. 'If you're staying, we've also got a nice room overlooking the car park, if you'd prefer?'

'No. Thank you. But if room 51's free, that'd be great.'

The receptionist taps something into her computer, possibly consulting the Happi-Corporation's policy on the rooming of vagrants, and glances up again. 'No problem. Is it just one more night you'll be wanting?'

For a second, an image of the Underground map flashes before my mind's eye – Edgware and High Barnet at the upper reaches of the Northern Line, the fleeting conjunction of tracks at Camden Town, dividing again for the Bank and Charing Cross branches before colliding at Kennington and racing down beneath Clapham and Tooting to Morden in the deep south. I shiver, a few drops of water falling from my rain-ravaged hair on to her desk. Please let me find Sarah tomorrow. I try my best to smile politely at the receptionist, despite the fact that naked Sarahs and football-sized Maltesers are now ricocheting around my brain. 'Can we start with just one night, and see how it goes?' I glance out of the window into the inky London night. 'Although it might be a bit longer than that, actually.'

burnt oak

'Whitby', we were informed in primary school, means 'white settlement' in Old Norse. It's a fact that vaguely troubled me at the time, and it still does today. Indeed, as a liberal youth with a fondness for Bob Marley and the Wailers, I'd spent most of my secondary school years impatiently waiting for the first black kid to join our class.

He – or she – never arrived.

Had they done so, however, they'd have had no fiercer local advocate for their civil rights than Timothy Anthony Howden. It's a point I feel like having printed on my t-shirt as I undertake a fourth circuit of Burnt Oak's main drag, passing Afro Cosmetics, Reggae Spice and the Lekki Kitchen (offering 'Food of Black Origin' – including the 'Family Bucket' and the 'Solid Dish' – to anyone adventurous enough to sample them). Whitby, I find myself reflecting, still has some way to go before it can consider itself truly multicultural. It's a thought that does nothing to relieve my feelings of self-consciousness as I weave my way though the dregs of the commuter rush.

In one respect, however, I feel completely at home in Burnt Oak: I'm beginning to look semi-destitute, and so does pretty much everyone else round here. It's a puzzling discovery. Wasn't London meant to have been revitalised by the Olympics? Spruced up, nipped and tucked, and sent strutting along the global catwalk? Isn't it supposed to be overrun by Saudi princes and émigré Russian oligarchs? If so, they haven't found their way up to Watling Avenue yet – which, on a damp Tuesday in late September, looks more like a postcode-sized branch of Cash Converters than the millionaires' playground that Jeremy had described.

Jeremy was right about the Happi-Lodge, though – which, as predicted, offers a decent night's kip at a bargain price. The Edgware Happi-Lodge is nothing to look at from the outside, though – an ugly rust-coloured edifice squatting on the edge of the A5, a good half-mile or so from the town centre, hemmed in by a car rental franchise and a Lidl supermarket. But inside – well, it's not so bad. The breakfast bar has an 'all you can eat' policy regarding croissants, and there are two double beds in my bedroom – plus a minibar, which I'll open in the event of a major lottery win. I've also got a decent-sized bathroom and a functioning telly, and a radiator that was big and hot enough to dry out my rain-soaked ex-border guard's greatcoat overnight. I only wish that the people at Happi-Lodge HQ hadn't chosen turquoise as their corporate colour, and daubed everything in varying shades of Harpic – even the pillowcases.

It's the first thing I mention, actually, when I give Jeremy a lunchtime call from a phonebox on Burnt Oak Broadway. 'It's like sleeping in an aquarium. Everything's blue-y green.'

'Must be very soothing, though, eh? Particularly given your fragile state of mind.'

'Me? Fragile?' I try sounding incredulous, but we've only been speaking for twenty seconds and Jeremy's already hit a nerve. He knows I've never been particularly fond of my own company and – yes – I've already had a couple of minor frets about the possibility of going a bit peculiar. 'Don't know what you're on about.'

'Fragile. You know – mentally unstable. Morbidly introspective. Lacking the calming influence of your uncle Jez.'

'I'm completely fine. Anyway, I reckon I'll be running into Sarah soon. Then we'll be coming home.'

There's a pause as Jeremy lights a cigarette at the other end of the line. 'If you say so. I'll be down there in a couple of weeks if you're not, mind. Dad reckons there's a quiet patch coming up at work.'

'Cool. You'll like it down here. They do food of black origin.'

'Nice. You should find a local lass and take her out for dinner. Get back up to speed on the 'talking to the opposite sex' front.'

'I don't think so.'

'Could be a life-saver, mentally speaking – filling the emotional void with a bit of meaningless shagging.'

'It was just dinner and talking, a second ago.'

'Both perfectly natural precursors to shagging, mate.'

'Not for everyone. Not for me.'

Jeremy sighs. 'So it's just you and young Scoobs 'til I get there, then.'

'Me, Scoobs and Sarah, with a bit of luck.'

'Oh yes.' He draws deeply on his cigarette. 'And Sarah.'

He's right to be sceptical, though. Sarah would never live anywhere like Burnt Oak – even if it did mean unfettered access to the 'solid dish' and the 'family bucket'. I put the phone down and head back down Watling Avenue, Jeremy's words still gnawing at the back of my mind. He thinks I can't do it. He thinks I'll go bonkers. 'He's wrong, though, isn't he, Scoobs?' I murmur, inclining my head towards my 'Sarah' bag. 'Oh yes. He's totally wrong.' Oh God. I need to get Jeremy out of my brain. And I need to do something more mentally absorbing than wondering what might be contained within the 'family bucket'. I need... yes, that's it. I need the thing that always levels me out. I need a couple of hours' complete immersion in ancient vinyl – inspecting, grading, valuing – maybe even a little light alphabetising, time permitting...

Thirty seconds later, sanctuary is in sight. I've registered a handful of charity shops on my wanderings around Watling Avenue, all pretty downmarket, but I'm in no mood to be picky and I bundle unceremoniously into the first I come across – a small independent one, seemingly devoted to the welfare of cats. Sanity ahoy! Even before the door has swung shut behind me, I realise that I'm unlikely to unearth a mint pressing of Trout Mask Replica or Sergeant Pepper, but that's cool – I'm here for the sake of my mental wellbeing, not business. I begin making my way through the mêlée of bustling pensioners within, now vainly trying to expunge the word 'business' from my mind.

Business – my business, the buying and selling of rare and exquisite vinyl from the post-punk era – is not something I currently care to dwell on. When I started doing record fairs and internet mail order during my last year at university, I decided to specialise in the kind of music I liked. Big mistake. When I'd finally worked out that I needed to actually sell records – heaps of records – to make a living, it was too late; I'd already established my niche in the least lucrative of all the vinyl markets. The serious money, as I now know, is in psychedelia, early rock'n'roll, northern soul, and ancient shellac from long-defunct US labels. Not in the Rezillos or the BMX Bandits or The Mighty Lemon Drops.

Shuffling sidelong past the queue for the till, I manage to catch the eye of one of the old dears who's minding the shop. 'Is it okay to leave this here?' I ask, nodding from my bag to the space on the floor next to the counter. 'I just need a quick look at your records.'

'Oh, yes. Of course, sweetheart.'

'Thanks.' I tuck my 'Sarah' bag close into the counter and proceed unencumbered towards the rear of the premises.

It's a bit of a disappointment when I get there. Clearly the Ebay vultures have already descended and stripped the carcass bare. There's nothing released after 1974, anyway, except for three Leo Sayer LP's and a handful of those Top Of The Pops albums with half-naked lasses on the cover. One of them – wearing a minuscule denim waistcoat and a pube-defying pair of hotpants – bears more than a passing resemblance to Sarah, and I'm considering a potential purchase when my silent reverie is shattered by a squeal of childish pleasure from behind. I look round on impulse, seeking out the source, only to be met with a sight that makes me leap to my feet, the LP cover falling to the floor. 'Scoobs!'

'Is that his name, dear?' calls the more birdlike of the two ladies behind the counter, bending down towards the grubby-looking toddler who now has Scooby's left ear jammed into his mouth. 'Your new toy's called Scooby! What a silly name! What a silly name!'

'Ooby, ooby!' echoes the small boy, attempting now to force the whole of Scoobs' head into his drooling maw.

'No, no,' I manage, at length. 'Not Scooby...'

'Not Scooby?' The lady turns once again to the small boy. 'Maybe it's 'Doggy'. Can you say 'Doggy'?'

'He loves him, anyway,' says the boy's mother, steering Scoobs' abductor towards the door and addressing me over her shoulder. 'We're so grateful you brought him in.'

I try summoning a response, but my throat feels uncommonly dry. In today's world of pound shops and TK Maxx, how poor must you be to buy your kids toys in a charity shop? I shrug and attempt a smile. 'No worries,' I say, now trying to locate the bag from which he was snatched. It's nowhere to be seen – but the photograph of me and Sarah is all too clearly visible at the other end of the counter, in the hands of the other shop assistant, a thick-set woman with dark hair and the early onset of a goatee. 'What are you doing with that?' I manage to utter, hoping the dry rasp of my voice won't frighten her into a foolhardy course of action.

'Just getting rid of the photograph, dear,' she smiles and, with a practised hand, slips the Polaroid from the hardboard backing and crumples it into a ball. 'We might get a pound for the frame. And we might get fifty pee each for your CD's. We don't get many donations from young people.'

For a fleeting moment, I consider explaining the whole 'Sarah' situation to the two larcenous cat fanatics who've just divested me of my most cherished possessions, but I know I'll only feel even shittier if I do. Scoobs, I note with a heavy heart, has already left the building – and back home, in Whitby, there are other CD's and other photos. Most of them with Sarah looking pretty mutinous, admittedly – but still. I manage another wan smile as I retreat towards the door. 'You're welcome. Always happy to help a good cause.'

I glance outside into the street. Leaden clouds have once again rolled across the sun and a few heavy raindrops spatter the pavement. From somewhere beyond the Tube station there's a sudden, livid bolt of lightning, followed some seconds later by a low rumble of thunder – a rumble that echoes between the tired-looking shopfronts of Watling Avenue like deep, mirthless laughter. I pull up my collar and head outside.

'Déjà vu.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Déjà vu. The feeling you've been somewhere before,' says the Scottish receptionist, apparently intent on extending our conversation beyond the bare necessities. 'In this case, you collecting your bags from me and then spending another night up in room 51.'

'Ah, yes. Sorry.' I try my best to smile at her. She has, to her credit, been unfailingly pleasant to me since I got here on Sunday night and is clearly making an effort to be engaging. 'I'm a bit tired. Long day. Very long.'

'Nothing bad, I hope?'

An image of Scoobs springs obligingly to mind and I sneeze – something I've done a lot of, today – causing the mental picture of my one-time companion to quiver alarmingly. 'Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure.'

'And is it just one more night? With the option to extend, if circumstances change?' The receptionist's fingers hover over the keyboard. 'I don't mind looking after your bags during the day.'

I try concentrating on what she's saying, but my mental picture of Scooby has now become Sarah – only this time she's not frolicking with giant Maltesers. No, this Sarah's more like the real thing – fully dressed, sulking about something indeterminate and staring accusingly in my direction. 'No, no. I think I'll be staying for a bit longer than just the one night, if that's okay.'

'Sure. Shall I book you