You’re in your early 20’s sitting with friends, having lunch in a gastro pub somewhere along the Thames River. Swans are idling by. The chardonnay is flowing. You’re in the middle of a funny story. You have everyone’s attention. A commotion erupts from just outside your line of sight. You try to continue, but the darting eyes tell you you’ve lost them. You turn to see what has interrupted your moment. It’s a middle-aged man, careening from table to table, moaning out the lyrics to ‘The Wind Beneath my Wings’. He’s smartly dressed in an indigo business suit. His hair is awry. He stinks of gin and cigarettes. He gets to the line ‘I can fly higher than an eagle’ and stumbles to the ground, legs splayed open across two over-turned chairs. Gasps of horror all round. He pulls himself up and lurches towards your table. Everyone recoils, including you. The…