‘Yes, yes, I hear you …’ Loud and ruddy clear! ‘Um, could you call housekeeping or something? Maybe they could send someone along to deal with it?’ Or how about grabbing a piece of loo paper and wiping it away by yourself?

I’m prepared to humour her little freak-out because, in many ways, Rose is a remarkable woman. Our company, Flaxico, might sound like some kind of anti-flatulence medication but it’s actually a long-established, male-dominated global food company. Perennially single and child-free, Rose has forced her way, terrier-like, up through the ranks and now presides over our sprawling complex of glass and steel. At barely five feet tall, she favours massive blow-dries and teetering heels and, although the overall effect is a little scary, I admire her commitment to adding height to herself from both ends.

It wasn’t part of my life’s plan to work somewhere like this. Years ago, I worked in theatre, which I loved. I did various jobs – props, lighting, set building – before working my way up to stage manager. However, the hours were insane, which was fine when I was younger, but less so when I became a mum again at forty-five. So I took a couple of years out after having Izzy. By the time I was ready to return, the theatre company I’d been connected to had had its funding stopped, and I couldn’t find anything else. Disconcertingly, it felt like all of my reliable contacts had moved on. To tide me over I took on some temping work here until Rose appointed me as her PA five years ago.

When I’d taken the temp role, I’d had no idea that Flaxico was one of the world’s biggest manufacturers of … well, pellets in fact. They’re formed mainly from cereals (corn, wheat, rice) that have been ‘extruded’ (i.e. forced through a shaping machine). When they leave our factory they look like beanbag filler, or gravel from the bottom of a fish tank, and are what’s known as an ‘intermediate product’. They are then sold on to other companies to be flavoured, dyed, fried, baked, air-puffed or whatever’s required to turn them into the desired savoury snacks, breakfast cereals or pet treats.

So, that’s what we are about; hardly artisanal, nothing fresh or even resembling anything you’d actually want to eat. It’s basically enormous vats of stuff being pumped about. Meanwhile, Rose travels the world, negotiating eye-watering deals with some of the most ruthless individuals in food manufacturing – yet she falls apart at the sight of a pube on a loo seat.

‘Could you get onto someone please?’ she asks now.

‘Yes, of course. Leave it with me and I’ll get straight back to you.’

‘Thanks so much.’ When I manage to sort it, Rose calls me a ‘lifesaver’, which is perhaps overshooting it a bit, but at least she is appreciative of my efforts.