I was shocked by this suggestion. What if we got caught? She pointed out that the odds were steeply against discovery. The magazine was read by a few tens of thousands of people, ABC audited. That sounded like a lot, but it was nothing against the national population, and we would probably be photographing tourists anyway. They’d be back in Houston or Milan by the time their picture appeared next to a heartfelt endorsement for Saw II. And even if one person did discover their picture was used without their permission above an invented quote, where’s the harm? It was a memory-card mix-up, nothing more. Big deal. A one-line apology in the next issue, if anything. My qualms about this amused her, and she told me about some of the sleights-of-lens she had been asked to do for other magazines. For my magazine. It was eye-opening.

‘Look, I’m under no illusions,’ she said at last. ‘I’d really love to be doing Diane Arbus, Kevin Carter stuff. I can take a great photo. This isn’t photography. This is the coloured sludge used to stick adverts together. It doesn’t matter.’

Nevertheless, I couldn’t do it. However safe we might be from discovery by readers, our bosses might suspect wrongdoing. That would be more serious.

So, after a couple of pints, I sent the photographer home and went into the office. There, I gave my section editor and the overall editor a straight account of what had happened, that the mugging made it impossible to do this assignment. They were formally sympathetic, making such gestures of fellow-feeling as social obligation and their legal responsibilities militated, visibly restraining their frustration that such a miserable and hated job was back in circulation, while still being sure to let some of it show. I was of course to be excused the task – that was what basic courtesy demanded, backed by the helpful shadow of human resources problems down the line. Their hands were tied. The only price I had to pay for playing such an immediately winning card was some discomfort of my own, of being made to feel that I had somehow conjured this hindrance to the smooth running of the magazine out of nothing.

A discussion of options followed. A couple of junior members of staff floated into the frame but were disqualified; there was talk of giving it to an intern. (The magazine industry at large was just waking up to the potential pool of free labour offered by internships, and was oblivious to the harm – they had struck oil in the basement of a burning house.) A day of photography made the page relatively expensive, I discovered.

At last the decision was made: they would fake it. The page would remain my responsibility, but I would use photographs from the vox pop archives, and invent the quotes, with an emphasis on films that would please our advertisers.