‘Excuse me?’ I said, very politely.

‘It’s Snazzlechuff,’ Ted repeated. ‘Snazzle. Chuff.’

‘Are you having a seizure? Should I get help?’ I asked, looking around for signs of human life besides the two of us. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Murdered to Death on the train to work.

‘You’ve never heard of Snazzlechuff?’

I shook my head as I calculated my best possible route of escape. Probably bash him in the head with my backpack, bolt back upstairs, grab one of the free beers and launch myself through the plate-glass window.

‘He’s literally the most famous person in the entire world,’ Ted said, not even trying to hide the disdain on his face. ‘He’s got the most successful gaming channel in history, more than 15 million followers across all platforms and you’ve never even heard of him?’

He shoved his phone in my face, waving it around until I grabbed it out of his hands.

‘This is him?’

Ted nodded.

‘Why’s he got a dog’s head?’

The picture in front of me showed a skinny body, clothed head to toe in a bright red tracksuit, with an enormous Wes-Anderson-looking Dalmatian’s head on its shoulders.

‘He always wears a mask,’ Ted explained. ‘It’s part of his mystique.’

‘What’s his real name?’

‘No one knows,’ he replied, waving his fingers around and making spooky noises. ‘He’s an enigma.’

‘You said you signed his cheque?’ I said as I swiped through the photos. ‘Surely that had his name on it?’

‘Cheque went to his agent.’

‘I thought you said he was an athlete?’ I said, deflating by the second. Bye-bye David Beckham, farewell Roger Federer, see you in my dreams. Both at the same time, hopefully.

‘He’s an e-sports athlete,’ he explained. ‘He’s a god on YouTube.’

‘Then that explains it,’ I replied, folding up my dreams of a workplace romance and storing them neatly next to my Ted-might-be-a-serial-killer anxieties. ‘I’m not really a YouTube woman.’

He sat forward and peered at my forehead.

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-two but very dehydrated,’ I said, tossing my hair to cover as much of my face as possible. ‘So, when am I meeting this superstar? Is he here?’

‘Course not,’ he answered. ‘It’s Wednesday, he’s at school.’

It just got better and better.

‘How old is he, Ted?’ I asked.

My new boss scratched his stubble thoughtfully. ‘I want to say fifteen but he could be a tall twelve. It’s very hard to tell with kids these days, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I agreed readily, wondering whether or not I could drive the heel of my shoe through my own temple if I was truly dedicated to the act.

‘He’s not like a normal kid though,’ Ted assured me. ‘He’s clever. And funny! So it doesn’t matter that you’re not.’