‘Sixty,’ he muttered beneath his breath.

‘What was that?’ asked Ben, looking up from his iPad.

‘I’m sixty,’ he repeated.

‘Yes, I know. I was at the party.’

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m seventy.’

‘You don’t look it,’ said Ben.

‘I don’t look seventy?’

‘No, you look sixty.’

George frowned, uncertain how to take this remark, and released the balloon from his grip. It rose tentatively towards the ceiling and pressed itself against the plaster. Like the human occupants of Broadcasting House, it longed for an escape but feared that it was trapped there for ever, like a prisoner serving a life sentence for an unspecified crime.

‘I’m going to name seven people,’ said George, sitting down now, depressed to notice how he’d started grunting whenever he either rose from or sank into a chair. ‘And I want you to tell me what they have in common.’

‘All right,’ said Ben, brightening up considerably. ‘I love quizzes!’

‘Teddy Roosevelt,’ said George. ‘Gary Cooper. General Patton. Bob Fosse. Sergio Leone. Calvin Coolidge. Leon Trotsky.’

Ben pressed a finger against his lips and frowned. ‘Is it that I don’t know who any of them are?’ he asked.

‘Really?’ said George, appalled. ‘Not even Trotsky? I thought you’d be all over him.’

‘Is he a footballer? I’m afraid I don’t know very much about football.’

‘Smart boy,’ replied George, looking away. ‘Yes, he’s a full-back for Liverpool.’

‘Well, I know they’re very popular.’

‘They are, yes.’

‘My father used to support Nottingham Forest. He took me to the City Ground once when I was a child and I was interfered with in the toilets.’

George stared at him and, for once, found himself at a loss for words.

‘It’s fine,’ said Ben, waving a hand in the air. ‘It was, like, a hundred years ago and I’ve dealt with it. So are they people who you’d like us to invite on to the show? I’m not sure how well they’d go down with our viewers, since none of them is actually famous. Say their names again. Trotsky. Teddy Roosevelt. Who else was there? Oh, this is like the end of The Generation Game! Barry Cooper. Bob Coolidge. A cuddly toy.’

‘Trotsky doesn’t play for Liverpool,’ said George, interrupting him. ‘I was mocking you.’

‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Who does he play for, then?’

‘He doesn’t play for anyone. He’s not a footballer. He was a Soviet revolutionary, instrumental in the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. He helped to bring down the Tsars. You’ve heard of the Tsars, I assume?’

‘I think so,’ replied Ben, crinkling up his face in a way that always reminded George of a pug, only less photogenic. ‘They were, like, kings?’

‘Effectively, yes,’ said George. ‘And stop saying “like”, unless you’re using it as a preposition or to express enjoyment of something. It irritates me.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ben.

‘Anyway, my point is that he died aged sixty. Just like all the other people I mentioned. That’s what they have in common.’