I shake my head. I think I might walk off but I stay there. ‘Are you on social media?’ I ask.

‘Facebook,’ he says. ‘Now and then. For arrangements.’

‘Well then you’ll understand. Although I have to say I find Facebook quite suspicious.’

‘Suspicious how?’

‘It listens. It’s listening to us right now, on your phone. If I say panini maker you’re going to get loads of ads for panini makers next time you log on.’

‘Don’t say it, then.’

‘Panini maker! Panini maker!’ I shout towards his phone. ‘That should do it. Just you wait.’

He turns his phone off quickly.

‘My mother’s on Facebook and that’s part of the reason I avoid it. It’s hard to see her interacting on there. It gives me physical pain. It’s like watching her dance. She started putting all these passive-aggressive memes on there directed at me, which was the main reason I left. I still have actual PTSD about it. Facebook is pretty much my Vietnam.’

He stares at me. I drink more wine.

‘Facebook,’ I say, ‘is a data-collection agency dressed up as a chummy get-together but geared towards fuelling insecurity and pain. They do that to maximise the power of the ads and keep people coming back. Then they can all keep selling the same shit back to us more effectively.’

He says, ‘It makes it easy for me to meet up with people.’

‘You think that, but the one thing Orwell didn’t predict was that we’d put the cameras IN OUR OWN HOMES. IN OUR OWN FACES. You know? We’re like our own fucking Big Brothers. It’s all worked out so perfectly I bet even the social media bosses can’t believe it. Do you know the kids of everyone who works at social media HQs in California all go to this school that’s ringed off from the internet behind a massive firewall so they can’t get online until they’re sixteen because their parents know it will ruin their lives and minds?’ I stifle a sob. ‘Like it’s ruined mine.’