Martin Amis greets me with an uncertain handshake and a furrowed brow. He is smaller and greyer than I had imagined. Is this slight figure in a waistcoat the imperious author of a dozen novels whose trademark is sledgehammer prose?

For several minutes Amis does not utter a word. He stares at the menu at Odette’s, a restaurant in celebrity-packed Primrose Hill. The silence is awkward, perhaps calculated (I arrived seven minutes late). Finally, England’s one-time enfant terrible speaks: “The menu is very pig-oriented.” The voice is deep and gravelled; the accent a languid Oxford drawl. Amis orders his main course (roast quail), a glass of Chardonnay and, reluctantly, a green salad; then he excuses himself to smoke a roll-up outside. I place my order (a veloute of sweet corn, and organic salmon) and another glass of Chardonnay.