I’ve already been working for hours before I arrive at your house, having loaded my truck with the multiple orders of crates of beer and mineral water, over 20kg a crate.

I’m hot, irritable, tired and probably hungry. I maintain my cheerful demeanour, though, anxious to chat with you and show I am not the inarticulate buffoon you evidently suppose I am.

You insist on me bringing your shopping deep into the bowels of your home, as opposed to dumping it on the doorstep. I accede, puffing through your ground floor in the inevitably vain hope of a small tip to supplement my meagre, below-London-living-wage salary.

As you shut your Farrow & Ball painted door, I slog on to my next delivery (only 14 to go) at a “media” company round the corner. I know I will be spoken to like an imbecile by a twentysomething bearded hipster, and have to cart dozens of boxes of company-funded wine and beer through the maze of Apple Macs, pool tables and quirky, Lego-filled “interaction spaces” to the kitchen.

The delivery after that, though, will make it all worthwhile, as I will get to chat with the elderly disabled couple on the eighth floor of a tower block, who regale me with fascinating stories of their travels. They are always grateful of my trek up the urine-soaked stairwell, and when I leave, the lady will smilingly press a pound coin into my hand and thank me. I get to forget my woes, the aches in my back and shoulders, the parking attendant hovering round my van and the 12 remaining deliveries dotted all over the city, my faith in humanity and kindness restored.

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