I asked Billy to recommend me a film to watch, and he said Casablanca. “I don’t like old things” we chorused, me pleading, him mocking.

“You’re spoilt,” he explained. “You’re like someone who can only eat spicy food, curries and chillis. I bet your tomatos have to be sundried. Apples! You only like sharp, astringent apples that make you curl your face up. You’re like that with food, with films, and with music too. The gaudy sensations of the 21st century have overloaded you; you can’t deal with normal things anymore!”

And it’s true. I’m hyper-accelerated in my sensory demands. I can’t listen to old stuff anymore, or even anything that sounds old, particularly. Anything that even approaches antiquity needs to be overblown to compensate (Rufus Wainwright!), the flavours familiar but layered on so bloody thick that they become rich and indulgent and sickly, because otherwise I can’t taste ‘em. I’m like a synaesthetic baby. Even my beans on toast need accentuating with cayenne pepper. Maybe I need to detox?

I blame Peter Jackson and Mouse On Mars. And the indian takeaway down the road…