It’s just after 1pm. My clicking finger is weary. I have refreshed the BBC homepage and Twitter enough times in the past four hours to warrant a lunch break (see me – ed). I trudge out of New Statesman HQ and slither along the streets of Hatton Garden in central London, hunting for prey. It doesn’t help that every shopfront apart from our humble magazine’s is a jeweller with diamonds in the window. The street-food market along Leather Lane feels too indulgent for a mere Tuesday. Pret is now £6,000 per prawn. And I have no leftovers for the overworked office microwave today.
So I head to Tesco.
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