When I tell people that I’m in the home stretch of my PhD, empathy creases their face. ‘Let me get you a vodka,’ they say, and then they tell me stories of their own doctorates, when they almost joined a cult of white-clad fruitarians who worship Keanu Reeves, or their friends, who tossed it in to move to Peru and volunteer at a shelter for abandoned alpacas.

‘I’m loving my PhD,’ I tell them.