There’s a bar in Compostela — I won’t say which one, because then everyone would go and ruin it — where the bartender has never once asked what I want. He sees me walk in, he pours. Fifteen years of this. He knows by the way I sit whether it’s a coffee day or a ribeiro day. He’s never wrong.

I mention this because I spent an hour last week arguing with my computer about where it put a file.