Röyksopp's album, Melody A.M., should come with a sticker: "Warning: may induce skipping!" Track two, Eple is fiendishly catchy, a sprightly, jolly little ditty. Listen to it on your DiscMan on the tube and you'll notice your fingers involuntarily twitching. Your hands begin conducting invisible orchestras of chirrupping swamp frogs. Close your eyes and you see gilded cherubs giggling, fat burbling babies splashing in clear bubbling lakes. Your toes don't simply tap, they dance in intricate tap patterns that'd shame Fred'n'Ginger. Ascending the escalators, you thrum the bannisters in extravagant glissandos. Alighting, you twirl through the barriers, whup-lah, and tip-tap-tup your way up the stairs, exiting that damn station smiling indulgently at grumpy bowler-hatted elderly gentlemen.

And then you pull your headphones off and it's a cold grey miserable day at the office.