I knock on Tamara’s door. I’m wearing extremely baggy grey Gap-copying-Maharishi trousers (my mum calls them my Ali Baba trousers), and a Beck T-shirt under a scrubbly (I have no idea whether that’s even a word, but it just seems like the most descriptive word to use here nonetheless) navy blue Benetton jumper my sister wore when she studied in London 15 years ago. The T-shirt is substantially longer than the jumper and flares out from the elasticized waist of the jumper like a strange skirt. On my feet are black toe socks and Japanese slippers.

I ask, “Hey, where’ve you put the latest issue of Glamour?”