I can measure my life in Pret sandwiches. My first, bought by my mother more than 15 years ago, respite from searching the clothing racks of suburban England in the hope of finding any suit that might fit. My second, in my late teens, an inaugural “professional” lunch on the first day of a two-week internship at National Geographic Traveller, travel paid for plus a £5 stipend for something to eat come 1pm. I stopped at the one outside Farringdon station and snagged a BLT and a flat white. A fiver covered it, with change for a Freddo.
