The woman dusted off the suitcase before unclasping the fasteners. It had been a while since the container had been opened and so it was a struggle to wrestle it open, the clasps eventually giving up but not before leaving her a painful reminder of this tussle with a spiteful bite of her finger.

The suitcase fell to the floor and all of her Arsenal memorabilia spilled out, almost as if the suitcase had been startled and in a panic, spat out its contents. All across the floor were her assorted home and away jerseys, scarves, programmes and a horde of photos from more memorable moments of being a Gooner.

The exterior of the building was as abject as the interior. A squat, dumpy looking two-storey with nothing in particular to draw any attention to it. The main entrance was the only detachment from the mundane, with double automatic doors which opened without effort.   Inside the building, as soon as you passed the double-door threshold, the room opened out. Filling the cavernous space were so many identical pine desks and lumbar support office chairs. It was as if Ikea had made a nest. The walls were a shade of beige which trapped sunlight and smothered it in boredom.

Make no mistake, this was the place that dreams go to die.