J has developed a new miring code, which visits a random number of right-wing sites for every anarcho-leftist one you click on. You can tailor it for plausibility, so it will do the Dinner Party Tory gamut, or the Alf Garnett gamut. He’s working on a Tony Blair gamut. It’s self-regulating, he assures his customers, so it won’t click on anything dodgy.

The Superego (patent pending) is also J’s brainchild. It’s basically a filter that blocks you from visiting anything that might be of interest to the authorities. You can override it, but it means you exercise caution.

D uses miring and encryption as a matter of course. (His plug-in is currently browsing the Texas gun laws. That’ll keep ’em guessing.)

*

Since she took voluntary redundancy in the latest round of efficiencies, T has been turned down for every job she’s applied for. It makes no sense at all – she’s not even getting interviews. She phoned up one place the other day pretending to be a supplier and asked switchboard for the name of the new postholder – someone younger and less qualified, according to LinkedIn. It can only be her age – but her sick record is excellent. She still keeps up her subs, so she wonders about getting the union to look into age discrimination for her.

While W is parked outside the cash-and-carry somebody dings her car. The manager’s son goes through the CCTV footage with her – she’s a regular customer – but they can’t get a view of the number plate. He tells her where she can get it hammered out for twenty quid. She reckons she’ll live with it.

Z has to remember to get enough cash out for the week – doesn’t want the ATMs tracking his movements across the city. He cycles over to Barking, just to use the machine there.

Now that the ticket office has closed it’s even more difficult for Y to get her Oyster journeys printed to claim on expenses. She has to remember to do them at the other end. You know you should register this online, says the ticket lady, who seems to recognize her. Save you time.

Posters have gone up about the new tourist Oyster cards. You need your passport or photo ID for those.

A flurry of snow swirls to greet her at the mouth of the Tube.

*

At the start of the new term V offers to give an illustrated talk to the class about the Holi festival, and L has this creeping and slightly sickening realization that she’s not Muslim after all. That she’s Hindu. (But she said she was Bengali! How was L supposed to know? Are there even Hindus in Bangladesh?) She’d better not mention it to SLT. She declines the offer, citing timetabling and the national curriculum. V’s slow nod of understanding has a touch of the eye-roll in it.