The angel didn’t come, not that I expected it to, but it didn’t, nevertheless. Angels are undeniably unreliable. Instead, I got an alcoholic Irishman who kept offering me drinks. I told him that I’d have a double gin and prune juice, and the silly paddy asked for one at the bar. They told him that they had prune juice but no gin. Every few minutes somebody came by to chat and I told them to go away because an angel might appear at any moment. They gave condescending looks as if to say, ‘angels never come out on Tuesdays’ which fucked me off because that explained why it hadn’t turned up. I scrolled my phone and Mail Online said that all angels were benefit scroungers anyway. I realised that I’d got my priorities wrong and hoped that the devil might come in its place, but it seemed that even the devil didn’t come out on a Tuesday night. I ordered a taxi and, on the way home, the driver played Bob Dylan songs which must have gone down well with the youngsters. I couldn’t help thinking of a guy I once slept with. ‘Lay, Brady, lay… lay across my big brass bed,’ but then I remembered that it was just a mattress on the floor.