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.

Sky News, to find out what a group of middle-aged men down the pub in Bradford made of it all.

The New York Times, to find out why their journalists had been predicting this for years.

The Mail Online, to find out whether it might interfere with a Love Islander’s holiday plans.

And, finally, Fox News, to find out why none of it was going to happen anyway because it was all a vast left-wing conspiracy dreamed up by a bunch of liberal elites and Hollywood perverts.

Today, however, he was afraid to look at any of these. Going to bed the night before, he knew that the last thing he needed was to have the bloody thing buzzing constantly as friends messaged to say how sorry they were that he was being put through such aggravation, even though he knew they were secretly delighted to see him being publicly shamed, and so he’d switched his phone off entirely.

A knock came on the door and Elizabeth poked her head around.

‘You’re awake, then?’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘Do you want to know what’s been going on since you went to bed?’

‘I do not.’

‘Well, you’re on the front page of all the broadsheets. And the tabloids too. Actually, pretty much every newspaper is leading with you.’

‘And if I’d said that I did want to know what had been going on, would you have left me alone and told me nothing?’

‘It’s better that you know,’ said Elizabeth, glancing around a room that she had rarely entered since childhood. She could remember many happy Decembers searching for presents with her brothers in the wardrobes and under the bed. ‘At least, this way, you’re prepared.’

‘You’re very thoughtful,’ he replied. ‘The Cordelia to my Lear. Now get out.’