Fenrir the Wolf stalks into a greasy spoon on Kilburn High Road. 

A young woman is counting her child’s toes at the table nearest the door. An old man in a dark coat is reading a folded paper. Neither of them looks at the wolf. He addresses the shiny-faced man behind the counter.

‘My name is Hunger.’

‘Know what you mean, mate,’ says the man. ‘Hangover special, is it? Two fried, two sausage, two bacon, black pudding, beans, mushrooms, hash browns, and grilled tomatoes.’

He wipes up the drool that drips from the wolf’s mouth and takes that as a yes.

‘One double everything!’ he calls into the curtain behind him.

‘I am Hunger,’ growls Fenrir. ‘I am Thirst.’

A woman with pink hair emerges from the back. ‘Mug of tea, love? Or would you like an iced latte?’ She strokes a gleaming contraption. ‘We just got a machine.’

‘Nah, full-fat Coke’s what he needs,’ her partner says. He takes a can from the fridge behind him and pops it open.

The wolf slurps the bubbly, sweet, icy liquid and is transported. Never in a thousand, thousand years had he imagined such deliciousness.

Balancing the can between his forepaws, he pads to a table.

‘This little piggy had roast beef,’ the young mother chants. Her child squeals with delight.

‘I will devour you all,’ says Fenrir. No one seems to hear, and before he can repeat himself more loudly, the pink-haired woman places a dish before him. The scent drives all other thoughts away.

The eggs and the pig products he recognises. And the mushrooms, which he pushes to one side with his nose. He has no need of visions today. But what are the small things in the golden sauce, and the red things? He sniffs. The smell reminds him of belladonna.

‘Tomatoes are good for hangovers,’ the old man in the dark coat says. ‘Restore your potassium levels. Or something.’

The wolf looks at him. I could open my jaws and swallow you whole, he thinks.

‘Don’t mind me, son,’ says the old man. ‘We’ve all been there.’ He returns to his paper.

Fenrir sucks down the eggs and sausages and bacon and blood pudding. He licks up the beans and crunches the hash browns – which are a little overdone. He leaves the hallucinogens uneaten and finishes the Coke.

‘Anything else, love?’ asks the pink-haired woman, taking his dirty plate.

‘I remember when this was all forest,’ says Fenrir.

‘Ah, well, that’s gentrification for you. You know they’ve started calling this area North Maida Vale?’

‘Ridiculous,’ the old man agrees.

Fenrir drops several golden coins onto the table, and leaves.

The domed roof of the Black Lion gleams red gold in the sunshine as he lopes up the High Road.