‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said.

‘Could we sue the BBC?’

‘You could, I suppose. But I don’t think it would get you very far. What can they do other than give you more money? They’re not going to give you your show back. That’s off the table.’

‘Do you want to know what my real mistake was here?’

‘Of course, darling.’

‘Signing up for those ridiculous social media sites in the first place. I said they were created for morons, but Elizabeth said I needed to build my brand. Really, all of this starts with her.’

‘Perhaps you could sue her?’

‘I’m not going to sue my own daughter,’ he replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation. ‘If I won, I’d only end up having to pay the compensation myself, since she doesn’t have a bean and refuses to get a job. Why doesn’t someone put that on Twitter? George Cleverley is something of a latter-day saint because he takes care of his family, allows all of his children to live at home, and gives them a substantial monthly allowance, even though the oldest boy has a wardrobe full of inappropriate uniforms, his daughter is a sloth and his youngest son is an idiot.’

‘Darling, I really think you need to compose yourself. Your every word is carrying and people are staring.’

‘Fuck them.’ He turned around and looked at the dozen or so people gathered in the courtyard, three of whom had won Oscars, two of whom were famous musicians, and the rest were unknown to him. ‘That’s right, you lot!’ he shouted. ‘You can all fuck off. Did you hear me? Fuck. Right. Off. Go on. Fuckity bye!’ he said again. He waved them all away, as if they were pigeons.

As the perspiration began to break out on his forehead, he noticed a young man sitting in the corner dressed in the style of a contemporary hipster and sporting an extravagant moustache, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he tapped away on his phone.

‘Hey! Salvador Dalí!’ shouted George. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Excuse me?’ said the man, looking up with an innocent expression on his face.

‘You heard me, you little shit. I said, what are you doing? Are you posting everything I’m saying online?’

The man shrugged. ‘Might be,’ he said. ‘What’s it to you?’

With the speed and agility of a twelve-year-old Russian gymnast running away from her father-slash-coach, George leapt from his chair, charged across the courtyard and grabbed the phone from the man’s hand.

‘Hey!’ he shouted in outrage. ‘Give that back!’

‘I want to see what you’ve written.’ George stared at the screen before turning around to glare at all the startled faces that surrounded him. ‘Every single word!’ he roared. ‘He’s posted every single word I’ve said in a long thread. And look, the likes and retweets are flowing in.’

‘How many am I up to?’ asked the man.