If I called it a massage parlour you might get the wrong idea. It was a parlour, of sorts, but not the seedy kind. It did offer massage, but only the G-rated variety, practiced in the hurly-burly of a busy shopping centre.

“You wait here please,” said the young man behind the counter. He was a dainty fellow with a squeaky voice wearing a t-shirt featuring a fist and the words ‘No More Mr Nice Guy.’

He ran a slender manicured finger down one column of the bookings diary before consulting a small woman in an apron: “She wants to cash in a gift voucher for a foot massage. Can we fit her in?”