I’m done early at work. Last week in the old job. Terrible, endless meeting from lunch until 4pm, the hour when I’d most like a nap rather than sit in a darkened room looking at slides projected on a screen, listening to the bloke who wrote them read them out. He gets paid a lot for this, too.

When at last we’re released, groggy and blinking, into the neon-lit acres of the office, I make a swift move to the back door, and out onto the streets. I want to walk, through the fading light, and breathe in unconditioned air, even if it’s full of particulates.

Soho is on my way home, and it’s always a great contrast to the corporate world. None of the people here at this time of day look like they work in offices. A bit later, and the bars will be bursting with screaming young women and prancing young men, who very much do look like the office workers they are, however much they want to hide it.

Old Soho. Dirty, busy, dodgy, scary. I go down the back alleys, knowing the whores will be out, softly calling to me as I pass. I know, I know, but it’s still sort of flattering. They call you handsome, and they invite you in, and say ‘shame’ when you shake your head, as if they’re disappointed, as if a quick shag with me would have made up for all the no doubt drunken, sweaty blokes they’ll be obliged to entertain as the night goes on.

They stand in doorways, cooing to you. Not many are on the street, normally. Only the real scrubbers. This evening, there are loads out and about. Rough ones, and some of the classier ones too. More than I’ve ever seen. And a bit desperate. They don’t want to take no for an answer. They almost beg.

And previously, none of them mentioned money right up front. Now they do, and I don’t know the going rate, but it’s incredibly cheap all of a sudden. Five quid for a knee-trembler right here? I would have guessed £50 and also indoors.

I want to ask what’s going on, but you don’t want to engage a hooker in conversation if you’re not serious about doing business. It’s not fair, for one thing.

I push on, down one of the more notorious alleys. Each doorway here has its occupant. The street-whores don’t dare come this way. Presumably some heavy pimps keep things in order.

‘Hey, handsome,’ says a voice from the shadows of one of the doors. And the voice is familiar. I’m shocked. I don’t know any whores, as far as I’m aware. Who is it?