There was a building, an old wool factory, that had half burned down in the eighties and stood until some years post-2000, when a former Olympic gold medalist who had moved on to the celebrity socialite dating circuit only to come out as gay ten years later on redeveloped the site into a swimming pool, in crumbling disaffect. I was a mostly distracted child, and, as was to become a pattern for later life, spent most of my time alone or with just one friend, whomsoever that one friend was at the time. Seldom more than just the one. At pre-school age, this one friend lacked corporeality unlike the latter, not as much slew, as continuous but slow dripping tap equivalent of a social register. His name was Jophus, a spoonerism of Joseph, which I believe was inspired by the derived musical, not original biblical story, “Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat” which I mistakenly referred to as, out loud to my mother, a closet Catholic and due to work commitments, familiar with the bible - in a kind of bible to Christ’s birth to Santa and Christmas to Dasher, and Basher and Prancer and the star of the show Ok, Rein It In Dear, “Jophus and the Multicolour Trenchcoat”. She found this, at the time, cruelly hilarious, and I, belittled, retreated, I believe, and granted Jophus a - layered - colourful - personality, as well as inner city tenancy.