There was a time when a fella had no business going to a dancehall for a woman unless you could hear the jingle of car keys in his pocket and see the shine on the arse of his trousers. The absence of a motorised vehicle under one’s rear end was a severe handicap in the romantic stakes.

That bit of sociological analysis is a round-about way of introducing you to another colleague at the recycling depot, Timmy The Whip Carey. If anyone ever had a nickname appropriate to his stature and nature Timmy Carey has it, a small, wiry man built like a whippet. A bachelor like myself, The Whip’s sole mission in life is to find a woman and settle down. This mission remains unfulfilled, mainly because I think the poor hoor tries too hard.