Back in London on a work trip, I catch up with an old school friend in a Soho pub. Over a pint of Guinness, he tells me how some of our former contemporaries have gone on to do remarkably well. One bookish outsider has become a hot-shot film director best known for resurrecting the career of Paddington Bear. There’s the friend who’s published a well-received novel while commanding a senior role at the BBC. The lanky kid from the tennis team is now such a successful investor that he recently bought a share of a Basquiat painting for $US12 million ($19.3 million).

That night I wake up at 3am suddenly questioning, oh, about 90 per cent of my life decisions to date. I reflect on the tawdry state of my finances, the bright opportunities I fumbled, the precarious nature of my see-sawing career. By dawn, I’m mired deep in a pessimistic funk.