Gen jumps down, and beckons me to follow her. ‘I’ll make us a coffee. Come this way.’

I climb wooden stairs lined with faded posters that have been plastered to the wall, their edges curled and peeling. Familiar faces look back at me, ghosts of the musical past. The place smells dark and cool and – if you inhale and close your eyes – you can almost imagine the thudding of the bass and the throngs of excited, wild-eyed clubbers ricocheting off each other on the dance floor, arms in the air.

‘They’ve made a little kitchen for us, here – look.’ Gen opens the door, proudly, and I walk inside what was clearly once the manager’s office. It’s got a brand-new IKEA unit, with a hob, a sink, and a fridge and washing machine. But it’s clearly still a room that’s pretending to be something it’s not. Gen switches on the kettle.

Life as a live-in guardian isn’t for the faint-hearted. The properties are vacant, so it can be a bit spooky and weird – basically, you’re making sure the building isn’t taken over by squatters. Gen heard about it from an actor friend while she was working on a play about a year ago. Before that, she’d done what most people do when they’re trying to make their way in London – she’d lived in a tiny, cramped house-share, in a bedroom that was once a walk-in cupboard, with no window and a door she had to keep propped open at night so she didn’t overheat or worse still suffocate. It was grim. Then she found herself looking up live-in guardians, and discovered that – as long as you didn’t mind being relatively impermanent, and could cope with living pretty much anywhere in central London – you could get by paying about half what you’d normally pay for the area. It’s still more than I’m paying Becky, but I’m in a very weird – totally miraculous – position.

‘What d’you think?’ Gen asks as she clatters spoons, spilling sugar and wiping it up, before handing me a coffee.

‘It’s . . . interesting,’ I say.

‘Cheap. And the other guy who is sharing it is pretty low-profile. Nice to know I’m not on my own here, though. We’ve had a couple of pissed people banging on the door in the middle of the night. I reckon they thought the club was still open. Ancient clubbing dinosaurs from another time . . .’ She grins, sipping her coffee.