Throughout my entire three years at Thump, I was never quite sure how to respond to comments like this. Obviously I didn’t want to start spouting a load of sexist cobblers right back, but I also knew that saying I found these conversations at best mildly distasteful and at worst aggressively hateful would just result in being told: ‘Chill out, mate, it’s just a bit of banter!’

So for the most part I just used to stay quiet.

Jonno starts making himself a cup of tea, while launching into a long, powerfully depressing monologue about an unattractive stripper he’d encountered on a recent stag do. I’m guessing that when this story unfolded first time around, I just sat here laughing along and feeling like shit inside. But right now, I honestly can’t deal with it. I used to tell myself that if I wasn’t actively contributing to the belittlement of women or gay people or everyone who wasn’t straight and male, then I could still consider myself a decent person. But in hindsight, you know you’ve got problems when you’re employing the same case for the defence as a World War II collaborator. The truth is: I left this job in 2013 with a fair chunk of my self-confidence missing. And it was all because I didn’t have the guts to stand up to a load of idiots.

Without offering any explanation, I get up and walk out to the corridor. I’m suddenly hot with anger, and I have the worrying urge to boot the wall as hard as I can. The truth is, I was miserable here. Totally miserable. And my misery was compounded every day by the fact that I wasn’t brave enough to quit. I suppose I was too scared of being broke again, back doing pub shifts and spending my nights endlessly trawling the Guardian Jobs website. I also thought – deep down – that this job might eventually lead to something more interesting if I stuck with it. It never did.

I take a deep breath and reach instinctively for the phone in my pocket. I think about calling Daphne, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to speak to her yet. I scroll through my contacts until I get to Harv, and before I can think what I might say to him, I’m dialling. He answers after one ring.

‘Yo. What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Just … Sorry. Just calling to say hi, I guess.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Calling to say hi is not something Harv or I have ever done in fifteen years of friendship.

‘So … what are you up to?’ I ask.

‘Playing FIFA. Still reeling from last night.’

‘Is Liv still there?’

‘No, she’s gone into the office, but I’ve got the day off. What are you up to?’