A long conversation had ensued with his wife and children that had only made him angrier and, eventually, he’d retired to bed in a huff, turning off his phone before anyone else could contact him. Now, the following morning, to his disappointment, if not his surprise, he saw that some public figures who he had counted as friends, or at the very least as engaging acquaintances, were taking the opportunity to use his discomfort to boost their own Woke credentials. The Secretary of State for Culture, for example, a man who George had once observed snorting cocaine before appearing on the Six O’Clock News, had tweeted:

@SecStateCult We need a caring society, where those of all genders and identities can feel safe and welcome. The @BBC needs to remember this.

‘And fuck off,’ muttered George.

But the Secretary of State for Culture wasn’t the only one.

@10DowningStreet Britain is a country that welcomes diversity and embraces kindness. Let’s make 2021 a year for all our citizens, not just the London Elite.

There was something hilarious about being called a member of the London Elite by the current prime minister, he thought. What was next, the Queen criticizing his inherited wealth and privilege?

D-list pop stars chimed in, naturally, hoping for a little reflected attention. As did Z-list actors.

A model-slash-actress-slash-humanitarian-slash-philanthropist who he’d never heard of issued a press statement saying that she was boycotting his show until further notice because she felt ‘unsafe’.

‘Never invited, darling,’ he said, climbing out of bed now and looking in the direction of the en suite with a sense of exhaustion that never boded well when it was still only eight thirty in the morning.

The phone buzzed again and, cursing, he picked it up to see a text message from Angela Gosebourne. He’d momentarily forgotten the other drama currently playing out in his life, that of impending fatherhood.

Angela Gosebourne

I need to talk to you.

‘You and everyone else, sweetheart,’ he said, flinging it at the wall.

REGULAR LONDONERS

Although she insisted on trading in her car for a new one every January, Beverley almost never drove in London, preferring to take black cabs wherever she went. They were quicker, more convenient and she liked the screen that protected her from having to make conversation with the driver. She had read somewhere that Stephen Fry had purchased his own black cab, even passing the Knowledge in order to be allowed to drive along the bus lanes, and she’d thought it rather a good idea, but didn’t have the energy to remember so many thousands of street names herself, particularly when she had no intention of ever visiting any of them. She was familiar with the West End, of course, and Hampstead, Kensington and Belgravia, but avoided all the mysterious places that lurked menacingly, like malevolent suckers, at the end of each tentacle of the Tube map.