Friday 3 February, Adriatic Room, 9am: Posh Girl complains of unwanted attention in a ‘Spoons during a showing of a sticky-floored former bank. 

Agent P

GBH has been instructed to sell the colonnaded mausoleum in a faded country town by owner Tim Wetherspoon, who, as the world knows, is looking to raise cash by selling up to 35 of his bars. Not a good time to sell, but hey, instructions are instructions. The representatives of the South Korean restaurant group that is deluded enough to think the UK needs more Kimchi and Bibimbap wanted a look.

Half way through pitching this pig’s ear of a bar as a possible silk purse restaurant, a well-oiled customer weaved over and suggested Posh Girl should join him, rather than stay with these… well, let’s just draw a veil. The atmosphere went flatter than a pint of draught Wetherspoons bitter, and “the deal died on the spot”, rages Posh Girl. What now?

Young Thruster pipes up: “I’ve just been to this Cajun-fried chicken place in Westfield Stratford called Popeyes. They are looking to open 350 branches in the UK. In Oxford, folks were queuing up from 5am on opening day.” Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the people, as some joker said. “Get on to them,” I say.

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