‘Can I have a quick word,’ I said approaching the reception desk. Jess the receptionist was a super-friendly, helpful young person, fresh to London so in the stage of enjoying being out every night without worrying about the impossibility of ever being able to afford a flat.

‘It’s about the vending machine. Who’s in charge?’ Jess looked blank: ‘No-one. I mean a man comes and fills it up every now and again. It’s always been that way. There must be a contract.

We should probably check that.’

‘What I mean,’ I said, beginning to realise that I was about to lose my façade of serious seniority, ‘is who decides what goes into the machine? The thing is, I don’t want to make a fuss, but it’s three in the afternoon and I want a snack but the choice is inappropriate. For example, I could live with one novelty children’s crisp, but we have two flavours of Monster Munch and Wotsits. Who on earth is going to eat those in the office. And there are two types of Lucozade.’

I was lapsin