"So what do you do?" It's the classic conversation opener, it's appropriate. It's not going to cause stilted silences like, "Who did you vote for in the election?" or "So, what's your favourite position?" So what do I do? Well, I work in a bar. I pour pints of Guinness for curmudgeonly regulars and I stack glasses in a dishwasher. On Mondays we polish the whisky bottles and wipe down the gantry. This is what I do in that this is how I trade my time for money, and that . . .

I got into this game because I was worried that otherwise I'd end up a fat mortgage slave in my forties who'd always dreamed of being a cycle courier. What I didn't expect was that I'd fall head over heels in love with it. I have degrees from good universities, and I expected to end up with some respectable career involving pinstripes. But now I spend my days riding around London at break-neck speed and arrive home exhausted, sweaty, bruised and caked in dirt. I earn . . .