As Creative Director, I made a few changes.

The first one was Kevin's chair. He sent me a photo of it with a thumbs up.

The second one was the backup system. Every important file now saved automatically in three places, and nobody could delete pitch files without a second person agreeing.

The third one was the one I cared about most.

I started a new programme at Fletcher & Rowe. Every year, two people from outside the usual world of advertising would get paid creative traineeships. No degree needed. Just ideas.

Receptionists. Post room staff. Delivery drivers. Café workers. Anyone.

The first year, two hundred people applied.

One of the trainees we picked was our own receptionist. A nineteen-year-old girl from Sunderland called Amy, who'd been secretly drawing ideas on the back of visitor sign-in sheets for months.

On her first day as a trainee, I gave her a packet of Hartley's Digestives.

“What's this for?” she said.

“For emergencies,” I said. “In case anyone ever deletes your slides.”

She laughed. She thought I was joking.

I wasn't, completely.