John Hudson peered at me over his half-moons. A rm frown was on his forehead. His hands were folded rmly on his desk. ‘Say that one more time, lad’, he grunted in his familiar and frequently feared North Yorkshire accent. I gulped and let it go one more time. ‘I don’t think the work I am doing here is worthwhile. I mean, I could be researching cancer – something bene cial for mankind. But I’m working on beer – what puts bubbles on a pint, why lager tastes of sweetcorn, how to choose the best barley. It’s not exactly crucial, is it?’ I’d been worrying about my raison d’être.
