My first job was in sales. In a grim rented flat above a row of shops, I worked through a pile of “leads”. I phoned people who had entered a competition and fixed meetings for “prize reps” whose real aim was to flog double glazing and fitted kitchens.

Every time I reached my goal, our hyperactive team leader would ring a bell, heralding a later bonus if the meetings I had arranged resulted in a sale. (They never seemed to.)

In line with my then employer’s Hobbesian view of the greed of sellers and buyers, the job was nasty, brutish and — for me, a holiday temp — short. But I doubt I would have got it done at all in the absence of any target.