The Barbican became the centre of a series of ill-judged Metropolitan Police drug raids. Then the service at the Chinese fast-food restaurant started to go downhill. Once again, they gave me the wrong paperback with my order, and my friend JB was given an emulsion paintbrush when she had asked for noodles. This just added to the stress of worrying whether I was next in line for ‘intensive policing’. When I tried to leave the building, the way was barred because a Government minister was about to use the same door. “Doors don’t wear out after one use”, I muttered darkly.