There is a big welsh man who lives (or is staying) in a flat across the road from us, but who I’ve never seen before (odd, because this street full of houses converted into flats with big Georgian windows is perfect for people watching - remind me to tell you sometime about the kiwi commune directly across from our kitchen window - hundreds of faces and never the same person twice, plus barbeques every weekend).

For the second night in a row, at almost exactly the same time of night, he’s leaning out of his second floor window, shouting down at the occasional passer-by to find out what the correct time is. Each one consults their watch or mobile phone, and then tells him, but he keeps asking.

“Hey…mate…up here…have you got the correct time?…What’s the right time?…Ten past twelve?…Thanks very much…..Hey…mate….Excuse me….What’s the correct time?…..Thanks a lot….Hey….Mate….Yes, You…..Have you got the right time?…Time…Do you know what Time it is?…..Ten past?…Cheers….Hey, mate….”

Just another night in Wet Ken.