‘Keen to get back?’ Pierce asked, his tone a trace loathsome. I had forgotten that he knew about the drinking, and I disliked the possibility that he might be needling me about it. ‘It’s typical, though, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘We come out here wanting a brush with disaster, something real, and end up being fed a bunch of bullshit by PRs.’

My irritation with Pierce jagged upwards. So I wanted to get back and drink, true, but he had no right to say it. Or imply it, anyway. Knowing about my problem didn’t mean he knew me. Perhaps I felt a little guilty – I was the one cutting the dérive short, even though it had been my idea. Perhaps these thoughts were all facets of the same general dismay about the way the day had turned out.

Anyway, hurt, I aimed for a spot on Pierce that I knew would hurt back.

‘Isn’t all this fussing over “authentic” urban experience a bit try-hard?’ I said. ‘A bit hipster-ish?’

‘Hipster-ish?’ Pierce said, and I was pleased at the affront in his voice. Bull’s-eye. ‘I’d say it’s the opposite—’

‘But it isn’t,’ I cut in. ‘It’s as anxious as the flannel shirt and the vinyl collection. An obsession with status, with defining yourself through experience. Getting mugged as some kind of artisanal treat. A pop-up that gives you something to Facebook about, something to define yourself to your friends. A marker of status, victimhood and depth.’

Pierce was glaring at me, but he didn’t respond.

‘When I read Night Traffic,’ I continued, ‘I loved it because I could relate it to my own experience; it took my memory, my trauma, and, without diminishing the ugliness of it, stripped away its ordinariness, gave it qualities I could appreciate.’

‘That’s exactly the kind of self-help bullshit people want from writers,’ Pierce spat back. ‘Exactly what I wanted to avoid. This idea that autobiographical writing has to inspire, which means everything becomes a lesson, so “how I got over this trauma” gets the unspoken addition “and you can too” and everyone’s lived experience turns into a Victorian lecture on moral fibre and self-improvement.’

‘But you didn’t live it! You didn’t overcome anything! It wasn’t autobiography, it was fiction!’

‘Nevertheless—’

‘No! There’s no nevertheless! A forged bank note isn’t worth half of its face value, it’s worth nothing!’