It’s raining and I’m trudging through the city. Every canopy on Tottenham Court road is overcrowded with big wigs avoiding the downpour. Not one person will step aside to let me in.

I’m scared that if I venture too close to the road, I’ll be washed away by a drive-by tsunami. I look around and head for the nearest deserted shop. My eyes rest on Denmark Street. My worst nightmare. If I venture in I’ll be bombarded with technical jargon that I don’t understand. I decide that the puddles in my shoes will only get worse, so I seek shelter.

Inside is quiet. Luckily, the assistants are tangled up with a customer. Flicking out the remaining water from my hair, I catch the eye of a man skulking out of a stockroom. He opens his mouth. “Do you need help?” I ask about a ukulele. He tunes it, puts it on the counter and my pin number has been exchanged. I only came in to hide from the weather.