If I say my relationship with the man who hands out copies of the Evening Standard often feels transcendental, I am not exaggerating by very much. It’s a simple, unwritten relationship: every evening he yells out the word ‘Standard’, every evening I take the folded copy which he hands to me. Even though I don’t particularly like the newspaper (especially since they cancelled their daily chess puzzle when it became free) there’s something reassuring about taking the newspaper from him. It suggests a coda to the working day but it’s more than that. It’s a transaction, an agreement which I find very satifying, more satisfying than other relationships in my life, perhaps because it’s so simple, reliable and clear cut.