The chatter about selling property in Dubai was, inevitably, interrupted by the ring tone of a mobile.

‘Mekon. Hello Mekon. IS that Mekon? Hiya Mekon mate. Howya doin’ mate?’

The start of any phone conversation by a twenty-something male, with collarless zipped layers, heelless lace-free shoes, scrunched hair, two days growth, frayed easy fits, stuffed messenger bag, on any train, anytime, anywhere in the country where the language of Estuary is spoken fluently.

‘Yeah, I know mate, down to me. Tried to get you last night... yeah okay, you couldn’t pick up… shaggin’. Shaaaaagin’. (Pause). ‘I’m on a train mate, on my way back to Portsmouth. Scab’s off to China for two years so we’re all meeting up… Tozzer, Lord Lewie, Felix… everyone. My brother? No mate. (Pause). Back up tomorrow mate. (Pause). (Laughs). ‘Yeah, well that’s me; I march to the beat of my own drum mate. Yeah, okay. (Laughs). Catchya Mekon mate. Ba!

‘That was Mekon’.

‘Why Mekon?’

Oh, he used to work for a company called Mekon mate’.

Disappointing. Being from the ‘Eagle’ generation I imagined Mekon to be the arch-enemy of the comic book hero Dan Dare - a small green Mekontanonian man with an oversized head - hovering on a silver transporter as he spoke on his mobile phone: a device unimagined at the time of his creation in the 1950’s.

The train chatter reverted to the noughties with further talk of buying to rent, commission, luxury apartments, no alcohol and sun-kissed beaches.

I went back to studying the backs of houses as they flashed by, trying to imagine being known as an organisation I had once worked for. GPO (temporary Christmas employment), Westminster City Council (temporary summer employment), Decca, EMI (pronounced Emmy), Virgin (oo-er) and Clinic. Given my chosen blog moniker I should probably have once signed up to serve with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia ('FARC' for short) to get my nickname.