Jason Isaacs was a local hero on the housing estate. He wore an almost floor length black coat and his frequent mysterious disappearances were the subject of thrilling speculation.

When we met on the street, he took me by the elbow, sat me down on the brick wall by the communal bins and proceeded to tattoo my left upper arm. There was no discussion about the design, or his competence. He simply wrapped my tattoo in cling film and said I could watch it ‘develop’ like an old-fashioned photograph but he had places to go.