British Library a hotbed of sexual tension

Really.

‘There’s something about this building,’ she pushes the croissant around her plate. Indeed there is: well-oiled escalators slide silently from floor to floor, whitewashed walls soar upwards, distant balconies rise one on top of the other. A stack of dark leather books thrusts 100 feet up through the building’s core. Low-light lamps hang long and pendulous, and in the lobby there is picture which consists of the words Yes, Yes, Yes repeated 169 times.

But it’s the panting throb of the ventilation system which sets the pace. The whole building sighs with hothouse groans which swell and fade to muffle other sounds. The man in the red T-shirt is on his feet again. Perhaps in search of milk. ‘Humanities Two,’ says Nicola, identifying him as a fellow occupant of the reading room she uses. ‘Not bad.’