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standing in a queue at the supermarket, or cycling home from football under the Westway on a Thursday evening, or emptying the dishwasher. Never when or where you expect the muse to strike – that seems to be the rule for me.
    ‘You play pool?’ Tristan asks.
    I’m not a fool. ‘I’ve had some of my best ideas while playing pool.’
    ‘Edith doesn’t.’
    ‘Of course she does,’ I say. ‘She just doesn’t know it yet.’
    There are two other creative teams. I’ve been where they’re at right now, and I know what they’re thinking. For all their smiles and their words of welcome, no one likes a new face around the place, let alone two. Edith and I are the enemy, potential rivals for the choicest accounts.
    ‘I loved your work on spreadable butter.’
    His name’s Seth, and I can’t help thinking it’s a backhanded compliment, especially when he quotes me the strapline: ‘Quickly Does It’.
    Not exactly my finest hour, although better than Fat Trev’s suggestion at the time: ‘You Can Hardly Taste the 25% Vegetable Oil That Makes the Fucking Stuff Spreadable’.
    Seth is teamed with Megan, an Australian art director, tall, shock-headed and loud. ‘Great to have you guys on board. What’s the dishlicker called?’
    ‘Doggo. It’s temporary.’
    ‘What is he?’ She has obviously spotted his balls.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Didn’t it say on his pedigree certificate?’ This from Connor, a lank-haired and bestubbled Irishman, who is rewarded with a sudden fierce glare from Doggo. ‘Jesus, does he understand English?’
    ‘Of course he bloody doesn’t,’ says Clive, Connor’s art director partner. ‘He just knows an Irish windbag when he sees one.’
    My first-impression rankings go like this: Clive in the top spot; Megan second; Seth third; Connor bringing up the rear. Megan almost immediately drops two places when she asks, ‘Remind me, why do we have to have a dog in the office?’
    ‘It was a condition of Daniel signing with us.’ Tristan shoots me a glance that says: over to you. It’s fair enough. He doesn’t know. No one knows.
    ‘He was my girlfriend’s dog.’
    The use of the past tense (plus the intimation that my girlfriend is no longer in a position to look after said dog) sets them all wondering if some terrible mishap has befallen her – cancer maybe, or a car accident. No one is brave enough to ask.
    Doggo seems more than happy with his new office. Someone has furnished it with a long leather sofa just for him. He tests it out, approvingly. The room overlooks the courtyard and is large enough for two desks separated by Doggo’s sofa. It’s a great space. I can see myself working happily and fruitfully in it. Edith has tentatively set up shop down the far end. I remind myself that this is a big step for her – from the desk in reception to one tucked away in the furthest reaches of the building. She doesn’t yet feel entitled to be here. It’s probably the reason she has been so silent up until now; she’s wondering if the other creatives will ever accept the receptionist as one of their own. The answer is simple: not before she wins her spurs with some quality work, which by default will also threaten them.
    ‘Don’t worry about them,’ I say, once we’re alone.
    Edith gives a dismissive shrug. ‘I’m not.’
    ‘Well you should be. There’s no such thing as a happy family, especially in a company this small.’
    Edith’s shoulders sag and the pretence goes out of her. ‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘This is supposed to be the happiest day of my professional life so far. I had my mother on the phone this morning in tears – tears of joy. She’s even googled you.’
    ‘
Moi?
’
    ‘I mean, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. How do you work? What did you do with Fat Trev?’
    ‘Flick bits of paper at each other, mostly, but our desks were much closer together. We might have to go for rubber bands.’
    ‘You
are
a long way away.’
    ‘That’s easily