I keep shovelling the biscuits in and gradually I start to calm down, the sugar is getting into my bloodstream and my hands aren’t shaking so much. When I’ve ingested the entire packet I feel desperately tired and want above all to lie down, but there isn’t room in the cubicle. I could just about manage a foetal position on the floor, curled around the toilet, but I’m unwilling to accept that I’ve sunk that low.

Of course, this is all self-inflicted, the result of a heavy nonstop weekend, and I would like to be able to say that it was all worth it but, from the fragments that I can actually remember, it wasn’t. There were a few highs – dancing around the bathroom as we came up, dancing around the club after the second or third hit, when the DJ put on something that sounded good at the time – but many lows, in particular the chill-out party at Stuart’s friend Tommy’s house which quickly developed into an orgy at which I witnessed any amount of unsafe sexual behaviour.

And now I’m trying and failing to hold it together at a job that I’m in danger of losing if I don’t pull my socks up. Anna has been recently promoted above me, and although she still sits at the same desk, and is still my friend and likes to hear about my weekend exploits, she has changed. She is now one of ‘them’ and has made it quite clear that, come my appraisal, she will be looking for some constructive suggestions about timekeeping and productivity. I don’t imagine she will be impressed if I return to the office with a soaking shirt, stinking that very special post-weekend stink, with chocolate round my mouth. I need to sort myself out.

I go to the sink, strip off my shirt and wash my face and armpits. That’s a start. I wish I had some deodorant, but soap will have to do. Then I dry myself with handfuls of paper towels. Miraculously, my body is holding up, despite the abuse. My pecs are firm, my abs are defined, my biceps are big. Well, they should be. I’m not taking these steroids, risking my future physical and mental health, for nothing. I had better damn well look good. The only thing that’s wrong is the grey pallor of my face, and the dark circles under my eyes. And a bit of acne on my back, which I can see in the mirror if I twist my head round, but it’s nothing compared to the eruptions that you see in the gyms and the clubs. Other than that, I look like an exceptionally fit young man, which is just as well, because I feel about a hundred.

The only problem now is the shirt, which is not only wet but cold. I switch on the electric hand dryer and start drying it, inch by inch, under the stream of hot air. This is going to take about half an hour, but I think it’s time well spent, and it’s giving me a chance to calm down and come down.