I come back to Camden Town station with one blue plastic bag filled with a black corset dress and stagger slowly down the 93 steps to the Southbound station. The downward escalator is broken until September, so you have to go down a dirty spiral staircase which is a perilous journey if you’re forced onto the inside.

It’s one o’clock, so as the train pulls into the station about a hundered hippies, punks and hybrids push through the sliding doors, not minding the gap, and leaving a large number of seats open where I can rest up. I look at my watch again and my heart stops as I realise I’m treading the line between on time and late amazingly thin.

Before the train stops I’m out of my seat and next to the doors, then I dash out and up the stairs to the high street. I start bouncing irritatedly at the barriers behind a queue of people who must have magically appeared as only fifteen people got off at Angel. I ran my Oyster card over the scanner and sprinted onto the pavement.