I’ve worked in more than thirty different office buildings, and every single one comes with its own version of a padded cell. Sometimes, it’s a cupboard. Usually, it’s a toilet. But it’s the very first thing to suss out when you start at a new place. Glossy companies boast about their amenities, and the way they promote the mental wellness of their employees by providing toiletries, tampons, top of the range snacks and table football. But I have yet to see the HR orientation pack that reads ‘Welcome to the company. Glad to have you on board. Just so you know, when you have your inevitable breakdowns, there’s a weird underground gym you can use. Just a treadmill, an exercise ball, very low ceiling, no windows. The light only works occasionally. When people just can’t bear to be here, they go and sit on the end of the treadmill and bawl their eyes out. Please don’t leave any food down there, we’ve had problems with rats.’

Hudson—possibly owing to some confusion around being American owned—has two ground floors. There’s the ‘first’ ground floor, where Reception is, and the ground-ground floor, which is technically a basement. It’s where our office is, and where you go to the post room and suck up to the surly deliveries team when your ASOS package has gone missing. Then, there’s the actual basement. You have to take the stairs. The neon strip lights are neither on nor off, they flash suddenly and erratically in the stairwell. (Akila christened the basement Studio Epilepsy.) There is a dark, dark passage, a shower, and a single disabled toilet. Your phone won’t work but take it anyway. You will need the torch.

With one hand feeling the wall for balance, you must try not to think about mice or spiders. Or worse. You’ll remember a rumour that ten or fifteen years ago, a Football Fever staffer found a dead homeless person down there, and you will mentally have to put your fingers in your ears and sing ‘la la la, I’m not listening!’ Do not actually put your fingers in your ears, the darkness will overwhelm you, and you’ll lose your balance. It will be freezing cold, nipples-out-through-your-bra cold, seeing-your-breath-like-cigarette-smoke cold (once your eyes have adjusted to the dark, it will just be visible). But you won’t mind, because the world is cold, and cruel, and inhospitable, and that’s why you have ended up in the basement.

As I descend the stairs, the wall feels slightly damp beneath my palm. I’m certain that out of the corner of my eye, I can detect something scurrying. It’s just my imagination. It’s a floater, it’s dust, I’m paranoid, and surely I can cope with a mouse?

But not a rat. Not, under any circumstances, a rat.