A couple of girls in their twenties, fake fur and umbrellas, glittery eye shadow, had clocked the writer – he wasn’t necessarily a household face, but they might have recognized him from the book jackets, the odd TV interview he’d done. They were nudging each other and giggling.

‘Be cool. Just be cool,’ the dark-haired one said. The writer turned and smiled at them, a smile that said, yes, it’s me.

‘Do you get that a lot?’ said Neil, nodding at their backs and trying an all-boys-together sort of grin.

The writer shrugged. ‘It’s not the worst bit of the job, is it.’ He’d spent the whole interview at a frustrating reserve, careful not to say anything incriminating on tape, even though Neil had tried hard to reassure him that he was a huge fan, that the readership would agree with his anti-Iraq War stance because basically everyone did, now, and they’d get in loads of plugs for the new book. Advance word says it’s the great post-9/11 Scottish novel – how do you feel about that, Neil had asked, and the writer had leaned into the tape recorder and enunciated clearly.

‘Oh, that’s for other people to decide. I just write the things.’

‘George BUSH!

You’re a WANKER!

Fuck off with your OIL TANKER!’

Beside them, two old ladies in tweed coats drew to a halt.

‘Well, I think that’s me now, Morag.’

‘Absolutely. No need for that. Let’s go and have a cup of tea.’

Neil worried that he’d gone wrong somewhere. The big man was well known as an interviewer’s dream, so friendly you felt you’d always known him. Perhaps he was just as embarrassed as Neil was by the awkwardness of the set-up, the march, the tape recorder. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought the recorder, Neil thought. Maybe I should have just taken notes.

He’d tuned out.

‘… and I think that’s reflected in the demographic we’re seeing here today. After an apathetic, prosperous decade, the middle classes are waking up, and standing up for issues that don’t directly affect their lives.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Exactly. I know what you mean,’ said Neil, covering frantically.