We’re living not in London but in Boulder, Colorado, a sanitised college town like every other such town with its anaesthetised, anodyne folk. There are gabled homes and affluent hippies. Its socks are Banana Republic, its cops blond – even the Latino community recycles. It’s so alas unlike a city where the Integral could be, on the muddy banks of a pretty and be-crocodiled river decked with pointy canoes, reminiscent of the sultry realm of Cheops.
As we reach the coffee shop, my hopeful thought of raspberry scones is darkened by foreboding: I am about to leave town.