There was a story about a rather sweet and lovely nurse who had been treacherously filmed swinging and had since won a certain notoriety. Paul, for some reason, did not like her. I did, and spoke in her defence. The whole subject of swinging was broached.

Paul, who had been in the Royal Air Force, told me that he had visited swinging clubs when posted to Germany. My virtual ticker-tape firing friend had mentioned a club in Birmingham. “It’s called Camouflage,” I told Paul. “No… Chameleons… It’s got a huge jacuzzi and…”

Paul smiled. He reached into his breast pocket, flapped open his wallet and pulled out a dark green card. He tossed it down on the table. It read, ‘Membership Card, Chameleons, Dulverton West, Birmingham…!