Friday 3 June 10.30am: Still under duvet. Bored. Is there anything worse than a street party? I don’t even live in a damn street. Yet a bunch of lonely losers from the lower floors are attempting to assemble a gazebo in the car park fronting our block.

Agent P

The rest of Team P are no doubt in the bosom of their families, already gulping prosecco. Except Sporty Girl? Her name buzzes up as the incoming caller. I give it 10 rings, then pick up.

I don’t do desperate.

“I think I’ve found a tenant for that old engineering works in Oxford,” she shouts over the sound of laughter and thump-thump music. “OK… go on,”

I say wearily. News of a possible letting of an old portal frame factory stuck behind the Mini car plant in Cowley is not what I wanted her to say. The long-vacant injection moulding plant has been on our books for years.

“One of the guys at our party does unmentionable things to guinea pigs in the name of science,” she shouts over the music. “Turns out he needs a smallish, anonymous space with industrial-strength electrics. I told him we have ‘life sciences’ space in Oxford. Do you want to come over and talk to him?”

“I might pop in,” I say, casually, before rushing to shower.