I am extremely careful with social media. I know the risks. One of my greatest fears – held in the folder ‘career death / social endgame’ – is that drink and self-pity suck me into a bout of horrible honesty on Twitter or Facebook, which of course I then do not remember. The way I find out about it is like this, in the morning, checking my phone. Because it could happen any night, every morning is marred by the fear – the fear that I have gone viral. If there’s one thing people enjoy, it’s watching a stranger’s secret shame explode in real time.

With this in mind, the most chilling sight in the world is an app icon stamped with a very high number – 99+ notifications on Tamesis, the number was maxed out, and relatively high numbers on my other accounts too.

Feeling faint, feeling the grey creep into my peripheral vision, muscles slack in the hand and wrist, I thumbed into the app and tried to find out what had happened. This was not normal, this was ‘racist rant’ not normal.

But it was all good. Dozens of people wanted to be my Tamesis contact. People I had never heard of before, people I had heard of, but who couldn’t have heard of me. Prominent journalists, tech people, people whose name I knew from TED Talks and Wired articles, Bruce Sterling, Warren Ellis. There was a lot of other activity too, mostly people liking or responding to an update from last night that mentioned me.

It was F.A.Q. Of course. Quin and me, in fact, in a selfie – no, not a selfie, a picture taken by someone not in the frame. He looked as composed as ever, wealth-casual. I looked a bit bleary and wary but OK. In the pub. It was fading back in, now, maybe thanks to the rising alcohol level in my blood. Quin appeared in the pub with someone else, a colleague maybe, and had joined me at my table without any noticeable awkwardness or hesitation. Quin’s companion – I had the impression he was a subordinate – had bought a round of drinks, and almost immediately disappeared to take a phone call. When he came back he made an excuse and then disappeared for good. Even in my reduced state, it had seemed a little convenient. I was left alone with Quin. He wanted to talk about Pierce.

I could remember the picture being taken, the way Quin told his colleague to take it and didn’t ask my opinion, total confidence, the warm arrogance of it.

The caption read: Great to run into interviewer supreme Jack Bick, always a T-plus – speaking truth to power!