ABSTRACT
It is a cold Friday night, rainy and windy. You are dressed for dancing, not the weather. Finally you reach the head of the queue outside the club. The bouncer – or, as he prefers to be known, the doorman – raises his arm and admits your friend. He takes one look at you and demands proof of your age. All you have is money. That isn’t enough (or, rather, you don’t have enough).
