The Institute was moving into less costly premises. As we crowded round the door of the new office ES snapped at the suggestion that the staff clock-watched at work: “Eight days a week is the norm here!” he declared. The new office was a small public library. Unfortunately it soon became obvious that there was insufficient space for everyone to have their own desk. Since I was not a permanent member of staff, my place was allocated last. I raised the issue of occupational health when it was explained to me that I was expected to work perched at the end of a book shelf. In response, the grey-bearded boss handed over a battered copy of Navigating business information sources (Burke & Hall, 1998) and instructed me to get on with my duties.

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The new arrangement for running club would waste the entire day. The plan was first to meet at RA’s flat mid-morning, hang around there until midday with TPR and LM, run for about an hour, and then go out for lunch together at about 13:30. I became so fed up with waiting that I headed straight to the pub. I saved a table for the others by ordering a bowl of Strawberry Crisp Oat Clusters, and eating them very slowly.

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Life was dangerous in 2015. The tall men in charge were in total control, supported by an army of small, nippy blonde women carrying tan Radley handbags (which SC would like). Privacy was long dead now that there was 24-hour surveillance. We were doomed from the moment that we were snatched from a London street and shoved into one of the massive metallic Range Rover transporters. I lost count of how often we were kicked and punched. The only enjoyable moment came when we drove into the chasm. I loved the sensation of floating downwards. Poor TPR, however, hurt himself when he fell and lost a “stave” from his front teeth.

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The world around me diminished to a feint photocopy in slow motion and now I knew the truth: I’d finally been found out and they were coming to get me.