When I look up, I discover the voice is coming through a set of very small, very white, very even teeth. He smells oddly familiar. Slightly fruity, slightly cake-y. Oh! That’s not perfect skin, that’s NARS Pure Radiant Tinted Moisturiser, my most prized beauty cupboard freebie. Aha! Ahahahahaha.

I beam at him, and then clamp my lips shut to hide my own entirely normal, serviceable teeth. Speaking out of the side of my mouth like a gangster, I offer ‘Hello! You must be John?’

‘Ah, no. No, no no. John wouldn’t come down to meet you, he’s upstairs. I’m Bradley, I’m here to take you to John, for your interview.’

Never in my life have I felt more like a shambling, homeless person. The grotty bag. The awkward walk in unfamiliar shoes, made weirder and wobblier by the skirt still rolled around my middle. The enormous coat that I can’t take off. The shameful and unshakeable conviction that I smell. ‘So, Bradley, have you worked here long?’ I am taking some comfort from the fact that, in spite of his access to spendy skincare, Bradley is clearly twelve and must be quite junior.

‘I’ve been features director at The Gentleman for five years now. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’

Somehow, I manage to humiliate myself even more on the slow, slow escalator ride to the first floor. ‘It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?’ I beam to Bradley’s back. ‘Very airy!’ Hours, days, weeks pass. Governments fall. The sea level rises. ‘Do you, um…have any pets?’ What is he, my German pen pal? ‘No,’ smirks Bradley, and as he leads me through his office, I work out why. He does not need any extra animals in his life, because he works for an actual walrus.

‘Ah hum hum hum!’ says the walrus, his neck rolls a-quiver, and it takes me a moment to translate this as ‘Imogen’. ‘Yes!’ I cry. ‘The time has come to talk of many things…sorry, I mean hello! You must be John.’ John takes my slightly damp hand in his actually slippery one, and pumps vigorously. Forgetting myself, I stare at him, fascinated. Every part of his body, as far as I can tell, is in perpetual motion, with the exception of a greying, waxed and curled moustache, solid and still as compass North.

‘Sit ye down,’ says John, with a little menace, as if I’ve threatened to climb on the table and perform a collection of madrigals. Out of habit, I squat, not quite resting my weight on the chair he is indicating just in case it immediately collapses beneath me. But I’m not in the Hudson Media Offices anymore. I have no reason to suspect that someone rescued this chair from a skip. Money has been spent. A lot of money, I think, as I feel an ornamental button digging through my coat, straight into my spine.