‘Listening to you talk makes me realize that I’ve missed out. Do you know that I didn’t bunk off school once in thirteen years? I was there when the clock struck nine, my homework neatly done in exercise books uniquely unadorned with football hero stick-ons and puerile graffiti. School Report: “Stanley Williams always works to the best of his ability.” Gold Star. If I had flu, my parents dosed me up and sent me in. It’s the immigrant mentality. I couldn’t – so you must. I got a First in Maths because I stayed in and worked hard when my fellow students were getting high or getting laid. Now I’m working in the City as a Quant. It’s research, basically. There are only a few of us with this particular expertise, specialists par excellence.’

I found myself adopting the manner of an inflated banker addressing a meeting of subordinates. I never could help myself. I stretched back, extended my legs, crossed my arms behind me so that my head was supported by my hands, becoming increasingly bullish with every word.

No one had to tell me that this was where my ego, albeit precariously, nestled. It had always worked with women.

‘These days, with the investment market expanding to take on a global vision, getting the paper accounts of American or European companies takes so much time. Even when you do get them, items can be defined differently due to different national laws.’

Her eyes went out of focus.

I managed to keep desperation from seeping into my voice. ‘Of course, you can imagine what it’s like trying to extrapolate figures from prospectuses, wringing the last groat of information out of whatever data. Furthermore, I’m a model employee.’

She looked out of the window, fascinated by a telephone box.

Suddenly I could really hear myself. The man who spun a web of gold thread with his achievements and moved in for the kill when his intended was impressed.

Something’s wrong with me – I almost said aloud.

Because I was trapped in a steel and glass temple to the twentieth-century religion – ambition, where I sat be-suited, be-cologned and be-haved at a chrome desk on the forty-second floor, staring into the glare of an electronic monitor, extracting facts and figures, which is what I would do for the rest of my working life. How long was that? Oh, only about another thirty years (by which time I’d be grey, wrinkled, arthritic, hunch-banked, pot-bellied, be-spectacled and deeply bitter). Oh, only about another 1,320 months (annual holidays already deducted). Oh, only about another 26,400 days (including bank holidays). Oh, only about another 72,000 hours (including breaks but excluding visits to the loo). Oh, only about another 1,320,000 minutes (of which roughly 50 per cent would be spent day-dreaming). Oh, only about another (I didn’t get a First fer nuttin’) 79,200,000 seconds. And let’s not go there with nanoseconds.