I check my camera carefully, make sure there’s enough film, spit on the corner of my handkerchief and gently wipe the lens. That’s me: proper and professional.

Tonight, I’m at the Bradford Hotel. It’s your typical seaside establishment, full of newlyweds, elderly widows. You know the type. The hotel has seen better days – purple carpet threadbare in places, gold paint rubbing off the stair rails showing dirty white underneath.

Charlie, the manager, gives me an obvious wink when I go in. I check my watch. I’m due at 9.30pm on the dot. I’m a bit early so I think about having a couple of drinks in the bar, but decide against it. I don’t want the photo to be out of focus or badly framed. Not arty farty either or any of that nonsense. Just the necessary.

I go back and wait in my car, reading The Sun and sipping from a flask of now-lukewarm sugary tea. I wipe my moustache with my handkerchief and check the time. Twenty minutes past nine. Time to get ready. I take my camera out of its leather case and hang it around my neck. I pat my overcoat pocket to make sure I’ve got a pen and notepad.

I go back in and check with Charlie. They’re in room nine, he says, second floor, third door on the left. Right-oh, I say. I’ll give him his ten quid afterwards. He’s reliable, Charlie is. No fuss. No drama.

I walk up the stairs. There’s no need to rush, they know I’m coming.

The door to room 9 is painted a garish pink. I suppose the honeymooning couples must like it. I stand there for a moment, make sure the camera is ready. Then I knock once and throw open the door. The couple are in bed together – the woman in a lacy cream number, the man bare-chested. That’s going a bit far – he could have left his vest on. They sit up, feigning surprise, and I stand at the foot of the bed clicking away. The flashbulb lights up the room, like Guy Fawkes night. Charlie comes in too – the couples often like a second witness. When I’ve got enough shots, I give them the thumbs up, then step out.

“Fancy a pint, Alf, before you drive back to London?” Charlie asks.

“Yes, why not,” I answer, then head back down the stairs.

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