A door opens at the back of the showroom, and a small procession of smiling people files in. Except, of course, they’re not people. Are they?

‘Here are our latest models, John. Each one has a different role. The programming is essentially the same – I mean, the major elements, because our goal is to have them absolutely like humans, as you know. Humans are humans, no matter what job they do, right? But these guys are also trained – programmed – to be brilliant at particular tasks.’

The synthetics go into the various stage sets. Music has started playing, quietly, and I’m now feeling calm, receptive and in control. A thought occurs.

‘Victor – when I met Winifred – my mother’s Helper – she used some kind of chemicals to affect my mood…’

‘You’re sharp, aren’t you? Yes, we’ve got a dab of it in the air-con here, to make people feel at ease. Nothing too heavy handed. They won’t notice, and I promise it doesn’t affect their decision-making. They’re free to buy, or not. But you watch the demo, and I think you’ll see why we rarely miss a sale.’

Sure enough, what I watch is compelling. Each synthetic is a Helper, a Worker or a Companion. They have names, of course. The one in the granny flat scene has a retro name – Gladys – for the same reason as Winifred. The others are plain English names – Dave, Sarah, James, Helen and so on. All white, too, I notice.

‘Are you making any with other skin colours?’ I ask.

‘Oh yes, of course. You’ll see in minute.’

The Worker gets down to some manufacturing task. One Helper gets busy with ironing. Two Companions sit and chat.

We walk round the showroom, and watch more closely.

‘Can the Helper cook?’ I ask.

‘Basic cookery, yes. Nothing creative. The idea is, the Helper does the drudgery, leaving your wife – or you, of course, mustn’t be sexist – to do the interesting stuff.’

The Helper in the kitchen smiles at me. She looks matronly, somehow – those smells again, I guess – despite being as slim and svelte as Winifred.

‘Now then,’ says Victor. ‘Come with me.’

We go out through the door into the back of the warehouse.

There are workbenches running across it in row after row, away into the distance. At each one stand groups of human-like figures. Human in height, human in structure, but without skin or hair. No such ornament needed. These are pure workers, made of steel and wire and circuitry, most of which is visible. They’re busy making more of themselves. Each bench is covered in many such figures in various stages of completion.

We walk through the warehouse to a door at the rear, which Victor opens, and we go into another vast space. This is dimly lit, and silent. Row upon row of finished robots – convincing synthetic humans, I mean – stand there in the soft light, still, waiting.