Stephen Renney was in his windowless office, eating a sandwich and drinking Fanta from a can. He sensed me standing in his doorway, looked up and then started making those slightly embarrassed, fidgety movements we all make when we’ve been caught eating alone. As though eating were some sort of not-quite-respectable indulgence instead of the most natural thing in the world.

“Sorry,” I said, giving the time-honoured response, and looking slightly embarrassed myself, as though I’d caught him on the loo.

“Not at all,” he responded, ridiculously forgiving me.

Sacrifice, by S.J. Bolton, p. 299