First comes a man to switch the chairs. Then a young press officer to arrange their position. Two men in grey suits with tell-tale earpieces, the Secret Service, hover at the doorway. Stylists flit in, pleased the weather is overcast as it is “kind for photos”. It feels like the entourage of an ageing movie star or the forward party of an absolute monarch. “She’s just coming,” I am repeatedly told, followed by: “She’s held up.” I keep getting my notebook and tape recorder ready, to no avail. And then, when Hillary Clinton finally walks in, I am helping the photographer prepare his shot, crouching down pretending to be her and making angry and devastated faces; she did, after all, lose the election to a