Suspicion — the cynic — grows tiresome after a while. He toys with a silver St. Christopher medal, the patron saint of twinks slipping through his fingers.

He’s doe-eyed, all innocence, and says, “I like older men.” I smile, let him think he’s got me hooked — but he’s no match for experience.

Still, he’s waiting for a response, so I play along.

“Why do you like older men?” My voice can’t quite hide the boredom.

“Because,” he says, “older men are more experienced.” An off-the-peg answer.

I lean forward. He flinches, thinks I might kiss him.

“Here’s how this goes,” I tell him. “You’ll want me to fall for you — to believe I can’t live without someone barely out of nappies. You’ll lead me on until you work out what you can get: a place to stay? Money? A holiday? A stop-gap? And then you’ll move on, find someone else.”

He’s shocked — hand over mouth, as if such despicable thoughts had never crossed his mind. But he knows it isn’t going well.

“I might be older,” I say, “but I once sat where you are now.”

He sinks into his seat.

“I played them all, never realising I’d grow old too. We all do — it’s the one thing we can’t control. But don’t worry. I’ve swapped seats, yes, but I’ve kept yours warm for you.”