“My God, what are we going to call them if we can’t call them plebs?” exclaims Karoline (with a K) during our Monday morning meeting. Despite this obviously being rhetorical, Miranda ventures: “Consumers?” “No, dear,” patronises K, “we’re consumers. They are the great unwashed. Scroungers, benefit cheats, asylum seekers, liberals. They’re the plebs. And they are lucky to be on the receiving end of our campaigns.”

As we return to our desks, Miranda mutters that she’s not entirely convinced they appreciate this good fortune, but K is out of earshot, already working on the celebrity chef badger recipe book we’re rushing out for the Country Land & Business Association. This seems to me to be about as unpleb as you can get. It’s like a posh version of the old gypsy/squirrel relationship. Badger brûlée is the most surprising dish so far, thanks to Heston, and it’s already attracted limited-edition Christmas interest from Gü.

Karoline’s sense of the social divide gets greater as the week goes on. By Wednesday we’re dining at the Ivy, trying (in vain) to get badger sausages on the menu. K lights up a Benson before the puddings arrive (“they don’t mind, I’ve been coming here for years”) only to be pounced on by veteran maitre d’ Fernando and told to put it out. “That’s it. I’m moving to Switzerland. It’s the last place in the civilised world - and that doesn’t include Italy,” she says, glaring at Fernando - “that still allows smoking in restaurants.”

“Titty, you can run the business. I’ll pop back once a fortnight to make sure it’s all tickety-boo.” Before the taxi’s halfway home, Beverley Knight is already on a loop in my head, wailing: “Couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t.”