I just don’t worry about the dole and housing benefit and the future of the Labour Party and where I’m going to be in twenty years’ time and how Mr Mandela is adjusting to freedom.

So time for another breather before the next paragraph because I’ve barely got started. This letter builds to a life-changing climax. I wonder if you’re ready for it yet.

Somewhere between the staff toilets and the kitchen, Ian Whitehead slipped into his stand-up act.

Have you ever been in, like, a super market, and you‘re in the six items or less queue, and there‘s  an  old  lady  in  front  of  you,  and  she‘s  got,  like  seven  items?  And  you  stand  there counting them, and you‘re like, soooo angry . . .

Ay caramba,‘ mumbled Emma under her breath before kicking open the swing doors to the kitchen where they were met by a wall of hot air that stung their eyes, acrid and infused with  jalapeno  peppers  and  warm  bleach.  Loud  acid  house  played  on  the  battered  radio cassette as a Somalian, an Algerian and a Brazilian prised the lids off white plastic catering tubs.

Morning,  Benoit,  Kemal.  Hiya,  Jesus,‘  said  Emma  cheerfully  and  they  smiled  and nodded  cheerfully  back.  Emma  and  Ian  crossed  to  a  noticeboard  where  she  pointed  out  a laminated sign that showed what to do if someone choked on their food, as well they might‘. Next  to  this  was  pinned  a  larg document,  ragged  at  the  edges,  a  parchment  map  of  the Texas–Mexico border. Emma tapped it with her finger.

This thing that looks like a treasure map? Well don‘t get your hopes up, because it‘s just the  menu.  No  gold  here,  compadre,  just  forty-eight  items,  all  the  different  permutations  of your  five  key  Tex-Mex  food  groups  –  minced  beef and  beans,  cheese,  chicken  and guacamole.‘ She traced her finger across the map. So, moving east–west, we‘ve got chicken on  beans  under  cheese,  cheese  on  top  of  chicken  under  guacamole,  guacamole  on  top  of mince on top of chicken under cheese . . .‘

Right, I see . . .‘

 . . . occasionally for the thrill of it we‘ll throw some rice or a raw onion in, but where it gets really exciting is what you put it in. It‘s all to do with wheat or corn.‘

Wheat or corn, right . . .‘

Tacos are corn, burritos are wheat. Basically if it shatters and burns your hand it‘s a taco, if it flops around and leaks red lard down your arm it‘s a burrito. Here‘s one