So, it’s Valentine’s Day, and this girl, the one this story is about, is walking down the hill from Haringey station to the bus stop on Green Lanes. She works at a bank in the City, but no one knows exactly what she does there. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s doing there herself. Anyway. She’s walking along, feeling cold and grey as the day because no one’s going to send her a Valentine’s card. Fog lies like a dirty bed sheet over the valley below, but she’s looking at the pavement. Still, that means that she sees the frog, crouching in the gutter among the cigarette butts, splats of spit and discs of chewing gum. At first she thinks someone has dropped a green leather purse, but no. It’s a real frog.