No.

I would be given my own weekly column that would appear beneath my photograph.

The copy would take approximately half a day to write, and the rest of the time I would wander coffee shops drinking espressos.

I'd get invited to gigs at Club Ivor Bach and previews at the Sherman.

For the time being, the highlight of each shift was 6.45pm, when KB bent his head around the door of the reader's room, cleared his throat and asked, Have you checked the dead? Yes, I'd say, turning my head and smiling with my teeth.

Champion, he'd wink, and I'd listen to his loafers squeak their way down the long corridor that led to his office.

One night, after I'd been working there a few weeks, KB hovered in the doorway before sitting in Kaz's chair.

fine,