This is the place, I know it in my bones. Neither peeling paint nor closed blinds slow me down. I push against the heavy wooden door; it opens without resistance or creaking.

Dancing dust motes light up in the sunshine the closing door allows in. There’s a whiff of ancient egg with base notes of mothball. A shrivelled man, hair standing up in hornlike tufts, smiles at me.

‘Um, I need …’

‘A photo which captures your soul while making you look as if you should have been a film star, yes. Take a seat and sign here while I prepare.’