I had one of those conversations on Sunday that made me feel my age. Across a white tablecloth and a whole Brill, a beloved friend was talking about how hard it was to find good customer service anywhere these days. He compared Uniqlo, where a shop assistant didn’t know what a wool coat was and you can complete an entire purchase without speaking to a person, to Margaret Howell, where the mystery of his shoulders had been explained to him after 25 years. I cited the really useful shop, which tempered things a little. But then, I’m the kind of person who walks into a vintners and says: ‘I’m going to a friend’s house for dinner. They are cooking this, and they like this, and I have £20 to spend.” Men, I find, are less inclined to be as upfront.

The next day I made everyone late by breaking a journey with a trip to the camera shop, which is like opening a door into the 1960s.