Eventually, I spotted it, nestled between a boulangerie and a cheese shop, a tiny sign stencilled on a huge plate-glass window in antique gold lettering. Good Luck Bar was about as far away from The Lex as it was possible to be, figuratively speaking. Instead of a dark, dank, old man’s boozer, this place was one of those café-pub hybrids with too many mirrors and not enough dry-roast peanuts. One side of the room was taken up by oversized sofas in the perfect shade of pink for faux lounging while you took a thousand Instagram photos. The other side was filled with communal tables and a dulled metal bar that ran halfway down the room, lined with tall barstools and Edison lights hanging down overhead. It looked like a steampunk hairdressers, if a giant strawberry yoghurt had exploded inside. Not that it mattered what I thought, the place was absolutely packed, the sofas were swarmed and the communal tables full of people nursing an almost empty coffee cup while they abused the free WiFi.

With no other options, I hopped up onto an empty stool, resting my bag on the bar. A woman appeared on the other side and gave me a big smile. Her hair was woven into a long, elaborate braid you couldn’t help but respect and a heavy leather work apron covered her white shirt and blue jeans.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

‘A white wine please?’ I replied with a quick glance at the happy hour menu. ‘A large white wine?’

I might not be able to afford expensive cheese but there was always room on my credit card for a drink.

‘One of those days?’ The bartender pushed an enormous glass of Sauvignon Blanc towards me.

‘Something like that,’ I agreed, tucking my own long hair behind my ears and taking a grateful sip. I liked her already.

The day had been a challenge. Between my jetlag and a pair of randy rutting foxes that had seemingly chosen the back of my shed as their love nest I’d barely slept a wink. Which meant I didn’t cope very well when my dad apologetically explained he’d moved all my clothes from the washer to the dryer without asking me and accidentally shrunk more than half of them. And that was before I’d got to the freezing-cold water in the shed shower or the utter horror of the compostable toilet. My parents might be happy to have me home but home did not seem happy to have me.

‘Oh my god, it’s you, it’s you, you’re really back!’

Without warning, a black leather tote bag, filled to overflowing, thumped down beside me at the bar with a short South Asian woman attached.

‘I am so happy to see you,’ I told her, squeezing my friend so tightly she squealed in protest.