His parents turn around and look in the direction that the boy has indicated. George’s hands twist into fists and he takes a step forward but, before he can move, Beverley grips his forearm.

‘Oh no,’ she says, her face filled with contained rage, as she shakes her head. ‘I’ll handle this, thank you very much.’

And although what takes place over the next five minutes lands Beverley in a jail cell overnight on a charge of assault and battery, as far as she and everyone else is concerned, it’s worth every minute.

And at that precise moment, a group of former Stanford University students agree that ‘Ghostface Chillah’, a black-and-white shape centred in a yellow background, will become the image to represent their new multimedia messaging application, called Snapchat.

Thursday

SON OF ADOLF

Four groups of protestors, some carrying placards, were gathered outside the BBC and, when his taxi pulled up, George glared out of the window with barely concealed contempt before asking the driver whether he could remain in the safety of the back seat for a few minutes.

‘You can stay as long as you like, mate,’ replied the man, reaching for a copy of the Daily Mail from the passenger seat. ‘Just tell me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll turn the meter off. Here,’ he added, pointing towards the front page. ‘I see you’re in the wars.’

George peered through the glass screen and saw a particularly bad photograph of himself on the front page, looking both angry and double-chinned.

‘What have you done, then?’

‘It turns out I’m a horrible old bigot.’

‘I am too, as it happens,’ admitted the driver. ‘But they don’t stick me on the front page of the papers over it. That lot waiting for you, are they?’

‘I suspect so, yes. Have you ever read Frankenstein?’

‘I’ve seen the film.’

‘That’s what this reminds me of. An angry mob waving pitchforks and hurling abuse, ready to drag me off to the river and hurl me in.’

‘I don’t see any pitchforks.’

‘Trust me, they’re all carrying them. Metaphorical ones anyway.’

‘Well, it’d be a lot better to get poked in the arse by a metaphorical pitchfork than a real one, I imagine. Hello, we’re in trouble now.’

A security guard was walking towards them and he tapped on the driver’s window. The driver rolled it down and smiled politely.

‘Yes, guv’nor,’ he said.

‘You can’t park here,’ said the guard. ‘You have to go around the side if you’re waiting for someone.’

‘My passenger won’t leave,’ said the driver.

The security guard glanced into the back seat.

‘Oh, Mr Cleverley,’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t realize it was you.’

‘Hello, Samir,’ replied George, offering a half-wave. ‘Climb in. I could do with the company.’

Samir opened the back door and stepped inside.