Rachel is growing up in the noughties, whiling away the long summer climbing trees and befriending strange neighbours with her sort-of-friend Alison, while her Blair-hating grandparents fret about the news of weapons expert David Kelly’s death.

Later, having graduated in the tail end of a recession, Rachel takes a job as a private tutor for a wealthy family, employed to tackle the sizable task of making their son seem ‘normal’ to help him with university admissions interviews. Before long, Rachel is living in the staff quarters of their London mansion, having her shaky mental health tested by the constant background noise of drilling as the mother of the family insists the builders dig dangerously deep into London’s underbelly to provide her with her dream eleven-story iceberg basement.

iPods, food banks and Primark mark Number 11 out as a story firmly set in the cold real world of post-Millennium England, and is a fun and surprising state-of-the-nation satire exhibiting our all too unpleasant present through the eyes of familiar characters. We meet Josephine Winshaw-Eaves, the vitriolic writer churning out malicious column inches vilifying benefits claimants, and Val, the one-hit wonder spending the last of her royalties on cheap Pinot Grigio, who is thrown a questionable lifeline in the form of an invitation to take part in a reality television show.

Number 11 jumps between the webs linking together the decisions of 2015’s haves and the consequences for its have nots, picking at our modern day fears and affectations, and is a different and thoroughly enjoyable way to round up the year’s events.