I’m just sitting there, for what seems like an age, steam pouring out of the white polystyrene cup on the table in front of me.

And the guy opposite suddenly asks:
“How would you describe Jimmy’s wife?”

So, I looks deep into the black, swirling Bovril for inspiration and tells him:

“In Asia, there’s this creature. An insect. Kinda like a giant grasshopper with a venomous telescopic tongue.

And in order to reproduce, the male of species spends weeks moving around the jungle in search of a partner. And the female just sits there, in the shade of a lush green leaf, next to a bright orange flower, looking at her mirror-image below in a perfectly still pool of water, doing her make-up, manicuring her proboscis, an’ all that.

And finally, one day, the weary male espies his objective, sippin’ her cocktail by the pool, radiant in the spring sunlight. So he cautiously approaches her, edging gingerly along the branch of the tree. And with the barely perceptible vibrations beneath her, she wakes up, opens one eye, yawns, drags herself out of her hammock and stands before him.

And then she begins to dance. Very simple steps at first, just using the front legs. Gradually working her way up to the erotic intensity of a classical Argentine tango. And the male imitates her, because he knows that she’s only going to let him copulate with her if he mimics her movements precisely. An’ if he puts one foot wrong, if he’s so much of a flea’s leg-hair out of step, then she’s gonna eat him….. Well, that female… that’s how I’d describe Jimmy’s wife.”

And the guy opposite draws hard on his cigarette, caresses his five o’clock shadow and looks over at me:

“Could you not just say something like she’s overweight, with badly-dyed blonde hair, wears ill-fitting pink lycra and has the words “I Love Motherwell” tattooed on her forehead?”

I just shrug ma shoulders:
“Sorry, man. I guess you’ll not be wanting me as a witness for the prosecution any more, then?”