The year was 1987, and I was working in a magazine office in Marylebone where people communicated either by telephone or by shouting. One day, there was a commotion by the front door as two stout delivery men dressed in what seemed like identical disposable coveralls squeezed through the door carrying an enormous cardboard box. When they opened it, what was left on the floor was a gigantic machine that looked like a badly designed fridge.
