This story of two reluctantly converging lives emerges from a book that is written in an impressionistic, fragmentary style. The short chapters describe events in non-chronological order, in a style sometimes so subjective that it actually seems to capture the banal, confusing mind of a homeless drunkard. This is close to how memory must work: moments of past and present, mingling in no particular order, are capable of being organised into a semblance of narrative by a normally functioning mind. Yet when normality is broken down, by drink, drugs or a concussive accident, the randomness comes to the fore. The style of this book is its main achievement.