She was very young, though. She’d asked for a hot chocolate when he bought her a drink, and said yes to whipped cream. He’d had a double espresso, and really hadn’t expected their chat to last much longer than his coffee, but here they still were. Dan glanced at his watch. He had to be at Waverley Station in twenty minutes, for the London train.

‘So, anything else you’d like to know?’ he said.

For a few moments the girl continued writing her conscientious notes, and then she looked up. She had wild green eye make-up and her hair was dyed a gothic bluebottle black. She wore it in a sort of choppy, spikey mullet, some sort of homage to a past that wasn’t really her own.

‘Erm …’ she said. ‘Just, I suppose, what do you think makes you a great music writer?’

‘Oh, blimey, don’t ask me that, there’s plenty wouldn’t agree with the thesis.’

She flushed at once, and he felt bad. ‘Look, music writers come in all varieties,’ he said. ‘But most of us have an obsessive streak, and that helps.’

‘Obsessive about music?’

‘Well, yeah, I mean, not all music, but definitely at the very least I bet every music writer would have an unreasonable attachment to one band they’ll love for all time, a band they’d defend to the death.’ He was trying to make her smile, but she just said, ‘Right,’ and chewed her pen reflectively, as if she was considering her options. He wondered what she listened to, and decided not to ask. He had a bit more advice for her though, so he said, ‘The thing is, Sky – it is Sky, right?’ She nodded, thank God. ‘The thing is, if you like listening to music, then just get on with it. It’s not a divine calling; it’s a job. I’m just a hack, with a job to do. So as soon as you start writing about music, you’re a music writer – even if it’s a blog that nobody but your mum and your granny reads. Just get cracking, OK? Don’t wait for the music press – what’s left of it – to beat a path to your door, because it won’t. Now, I’ve got a train to catch, so …’

‘Oh!’ Sky said, jumping up, reddening furiously. She held out a hand. Each slender finger was adorned with a bulky metal ring in the shape of skulls and snakes, and her fingernails were painted black, but her manners were those of a 1930s debutante. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for your time.’

‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘Best of luck with it.’ He shook her heavy little hand, then walked to the door.

‘Dan,’ she said urgently. He turned.

‘Limp Bizkit,’ she said. He looked at her, thinking: What the fuck?

‘My obsession,’ she said.