'Did you know that regular meditation can reduce your biological age by up to 15 years?' I say, plonking myself down onto the Coffee Plant stool next to Geoff.
Geoff shrugs but doesn't bother looking up from his copy of the Sun.
'And 20 minutes are equivalent to four hours deep sleep,' I add. Since I attended Andrew and his Arran jumper's weekend workshop, I now have a fistful of facts about the benefits of meditation. But have I once sat down and tried to 'follow my breath' since? Hell no.
'People who meditate can grow an extra head,' I say. This last fact isn't technically true but at least I have Geoff's attention.
He closes his newspaper and looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is grey. The increased taxi trade around Christmas means he's doing eight hour shifts back to back with just a couple of fried eggs and an interim kip on his knackered sofa to sustain him.
'You ok?' I ask.
'No,' says Geoff. 'My landlord's sold the flat. I'm being evicted in two weeks.'
There's a short pause. Behind us, I hear the yoga women discussing their annual New Year fasting retreat in Koh Phangan.
I take a deep breath. 'OK,' I say, 'but just until you've sorted yourself out.'
'I won't be a bother,' says Geoff. 'I'll even cook for you.'
I smile. Geoff has two dishes in his repertoire - a curious interpretation of Moussaka and a carrot curry.
Together we stare out at Ed's fruit stall garlanded with tinsel, and next to it a small cluster of Japanese tourists by the Bavarian Bratwurst stand.
'Hey ho,' says Geoff with faux Father Christmas cheer. 'It's the Westway club's Christmas party and I'm dishing out the veg.' He shrugs on his coat and gives me a quick kiss on the top of my head.
He's halfway through door when he nods to something - or someone - out on the street. 'It's your special friend,' he says, exiting with a grin.
I scan the pavement.
'Oh shit,' I say and duck down beneath the table.
From this limited vantage point I can only see Wilson's boots and jeans as he enters the café.
I briefly consider making a dash for the door with my coat over my head, but decide against it.
'Having fun down there?' I hear Wilson say.
I wait a couple of seconds to make sure he's addressing me.
'Yes,' I say, 'lots.'
'One o'clock in the afternoon is pretty early to be under a table.'
'It's the festive season.'
I hear him chuckle. 'Can I talk to you?' he says.
'I'm a bit busy right now.'
'Doing what?'
'Having some me-time away from all the festivities,' I reply. Ideally, I'd accompany the phrase 'me-time' with an ironic, inverted comma gesture, but since Wilson can't see me, it would be wasted.
'Two minutes,' says Wilson.
I sigh. 'Alright.'
'Shall I come down?'
'No.' I grab hold of the table and winch myself into a standing position. Then I look Wilson straight in the eye. 'Hello, stalker.'
To be continued next Friday...