‘Well, this is marvellous,’ he says. ‘Simply marvellous. I’m so proud of you, my darling.’

Beverley feels a rush of love for her husband. He’s been nothing but supportive of her since she declared an interest in writing and, when her book was finished, had agreed not to pull any strings with his industry contacts, so that if success came her way, it would come entirely on her own merit. And it has. A whole new life has opened up to her now.

‘Is that him?’ asks George, looking down the road as a stocky twelve-year-old boy walks slowly towards them, his schoolbag on his back. He seems weighed down by it, as if he already knows that his future is going to be more depressing than his present.

‘That’s him,’ says Beverley, tossing the book on to the back seat without any ceremony. ‘Are we sure about this?’

‘I’m sure if you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

George nods and waits a few extra moments until the child is practically level with them, then opens the door and climbs out.

And at that precise moment, near a taco stand in Mexico, a dog sits on the ground, panting and looking up hopefully, while a twenty-six-year-old man named Kevin Systrom takes a photograph of him, posting it to his brand-new Instagram account, and captioning it:

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Wednesday

THE WOKESTERS AND THE POOTS

As he slowly drifted back towards consciousness, George emitted a lengthy groan, longing for a return to the erotic dream he’d been enjoying that featured him, Julie Christie and a water lilo. But it was pointless. The next twenty-four hours, he guessed, would be among the most irritating of his life. His mind was already flooding with memories of the evening before and the various humiliations that had been so quickly thrust upon him by a pitiless world.

He rolled over and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It appeared to have been painted recently, for it looked startlingly white. On the bedside table next to him sat the eight-hundred-page biography that he had yet to open, along with his phone, which stood on its charger. His usual practice at this time was to sit up in bed, place both his and Beverley’s pillows behind his back, and then reach for the phone and his glasses to discover whether anything interesting had taken place while he was asleep but, right now, it was the last thing he felt like doing.

In catching up with the news, he had a running order that he stuck to religiously.

First, AP and Reuters, to find out what had happened in the world overnight.

Then, the Guardian, to find out why this would cause all life on earth to end soon.

The Telegraph, to find out why the United Kingdom was alone among nations with the courage and resilience to survive this global catastrophe.

The Times, to find out how much it would cost.