With its richly textured world and depth of characterisation, he show has created a global community of fans. “Internationally people are coming together in their appreciation of this series and the connection to these characters, and I find it moving,” says Miller, who sifted through over 5,500 items sent by Lionsgate, the company that produces the show, for the exhibition. Yet it’s the show’s writing, rather than its trappings, that will determine whether it will last for the ages. In the Momi exhibition, Weiner introduces defining scenes from each season. We see Pete tell Bert Cooper that Don Draper is really Dick Whitman and Cooper not give a damn; Betty confront Don about his infidelity; Don dismiss Peggy when she quits; and, a few seasons later, seek forgiveness when he is laid low; we see Don write his letter about why he won’t work with tobacco clients. Visitors crowd around a small bench taking in these indelible moments. They watch them so fervently it’s as if they’ve never seen them before; as if these moments might disappear after the series finale. But no matter what happens to Don in that final hour, which has been the subject of much speculation, they will always have the full show’s 92 hours, and that is the best artefact of all.

t’s weird to see Facebook – once as omnipresent and seemingly indestructible as concrete or Coldplay – reduced to touting for custom on television, a medium it had presumably hoped to kill off by now. Weirder still, its first-ever series of TV ads seeks to remind us what friendship used to mean in those days beforeFacebook came along and turned everyone’s social life into a big online pissing contest. 

As the obligatory twee folk version of a classic pop hit twinkles irritatingly in the background, a pair of elderly bros take a selfie by a lake and gaggles of impossibly cute girls run through rainy streets or jive in unison to Willie Nelson LPs. “They make us heroes in their stories, so we let their likes become our likes,” squeaks the equally twee voiceover, as if explaining the concept of friendship to a psychopathic alien (or indeed someone who’s spent too long on social media).

Facebook knows that it’s corrupted a generation, that in real life you’d never get three people dancing in a kitchen without one of them uploading a video of it and neurotically checking for “likes”. So it’s pleading with us for a fresh start, a chance to prove that it really is a place to make best friends for ever, rather than a seedy information exchange where we surrender our own privacy for the chance to snoop on our exes. 

Well, too late Zuckerberg. Friendship is already dead: I just asked my 354 “friends” if anyone wanted to come round and dance around to Willie Nelson LPs in my kitchen and nobody even bothered to reply.