‘Well, having read your original tweet, I can see that you meant it in a kindly way.’

‘But do you think that anyone was actually offended? Or are people just getting off on pretending to be?’

‘Well, I—’

‘Don’t you think that most of these people who feign umbrage spend most of their time just looking for something or someone to be offended by? They wake up, scavenge for a few half-eaten slices of last night’s take-away pizza, and then they’re on to their smartphones, scrolling through the news headlines to decide who’s upset them today. Perhaps it’s an airline executive who’s been rude to a flight attendant. Or a film actress who’s dared to put on weight. Or a television interviewer who’s offered encouragement to a person going through what one assumes is a traumatic but hopefully positive experience. They identify the criminal who most meets their needs and they start tweeting about it. Oh, the pain, they cry! The hurt! The offence! I’m so upset that I can’t get out of bed today! I’m so wounded that tears are rolling down my cheeks and I’ll have to cancel my plans to help out at the local homeless shelter! It’s all offence, offence, offence, these days, isn’t it? Every person vying with everyone else to see who can be the most affronted, who can show that they’re the most Woke – that’s the word, isn’t it? – and each one desperate to prove that they’re morally superior to the poor unfortunate idiot who’s been dragged into their cauldron of pain. Frankly, the whole thing sickens me. These people are morons, Sophie, every one of them, with their fake names and their fake profiles, screaming into the wind for no other reason than that no one is listening to them in the real world. But Twitter will listen to me, they think! Twitter will hear my pain! Well, eff Twitter, Sophie! Eff Twitter! I won’t say the full word, as this is the Six O’Clock News and there might be children watching, but if this was Newsnight, then I most certainly would. Eff Twitter! How do you like that? I’ve spent my life, my entire life, supporting people who are victims – my own son is named after Nelson Mandela, for Christ’s sake – and these idiots dare to criticize me? There isn’t a prejudiced bone in my body, but they don’t want to hear that because that’s not the narrative they want to project. I’m just an old straight white man, so I must be the enemy, right? If I was young, they wouldn’t go after me. If I was a poof, they wouldn’t go after me. If I was coloured, they wouldn’t go—’

The screen suddenly flashed to the test signal and Beverley and Elizabeth turned to each other, their mouths hanging open in shock.

‘Did he say poof?’ asked Beverley.

‘Did he say coloured?’ asked Elizabeth.