It’s as if the place is hermetically sealed. Left outside is a pelting rain, gushing pipes, greasy water surging over gutters and traffic islands, slopping into sandals and brogues, umbrellas sucked inside out like marrow from a bone, office workers jammed in alcoves with hands wrapped around takeaway coffees, waiting for the lights to go green. Also barred from entry, the petrichor and panic, the blaring horns, the hot-wet stickiness of a late spring storm. None of that has made it past the door. Once inside, you’re floating in white space …