In 2006 I was a journalism student when I hit the work-experience jackpot: a month-long internship at Time Out, the magazine that for half a century embodied going out in London (and more lately New York, Paris, and a host of other cities).
To walk under its enormous neon sign, which projected confidently above the Tottenham Court Road, was to be catapulted back into the Swinging Sixties London in which the magazine had been founded: the office was all teak shelves, swirly yellow and brown carpets, and hungover journalists quietly recounting what they did last night (no one ever seemed to stay in).
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