Mitzi has started pimping me out to ‘solve people’s problems’. “You’re like Ms Wolf from that film,” she coos over the phone one afternoon in September when the weather can’t be arsed being anything at all and has settled on a humid drab grey like the soul of a hate-filled stockbroker. I allow one of those pauses that enable me to work out what the hell she’s on about. Then I get it. “From Pulp Fiction?” “Yes!” “That’s ve...

ONE I hear the music before I even arrive at Mitzi’s. It is dubstep, and I know this because I was at a club last week and asked the girl I was with what the hell we were listening to. She told me it was dubstep and I told her it was awful and she nodded, although we didn’t leave because we were drunk. You expect that sort of racket in a club in London; out in the sticks in Kent, it is so unexpected it seems surreal. Mitz...