‘George,’ said Sophie, butting in. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t sound as if you really mean any of this.’
‘Don’t I?’ he asked, sitting back in his chair and looking shocked.
‘No, it sounds a bit … well, mocking.’
George smiled and nodded his head. ‘There’s no getting one past you, is there, Sophie? That’s why you’re here in News and an old bigot like me is stuck in Light Entertainment! No, of course I don’t mean a word of it.’
‘Uh-oh,’ said Elizabeth, leaning forward now and setting her phone down on the arm of her chair.
‘Might I ask why not?’ asked Sophie.
‘Because it’s all a load of old nonsense, isn’t it?’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Look, everyone who has criticized me, both online and off, has claimed to be offended by what I said. But let me take you as an example. Were you offended, Sophie?’
‘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.
The screen changed again and now there was just Sophie Raworth on her own in the studio, looking perfectly poised, while in the background a muffled sound of protest could be heard, as if someone was being pulled out of a chair while having a hand forcibly placed across his mouth.
‘Apologies for that,’ said Sophie, ‘we appear to be having some technical difficulties. Now let’s move on to the sport.’
‘Let’s not,’ said Beverley, pressing the remote control to switch the television off. She turned to her daughter and shook her head. ‘That wasn’t good, was it?’ she asked.
‘Oh no,’ said Elizabeth, laughing as she picked up her phone and pressed the blue app with the cheerful little bird icon. ‘No, he’s completely fucked now.’
SPEED DATING
Everyone moved carefully towards the centre of the hall, circling the seats slowly like children playing musical chairs at a birthday party, and Nelson found himself in the centre of the group, facing a perfectly nice-looking woman only a few years older than him. The bell rang and they stared at each other and smiled.
‘Apparently, I’m Number 16,’ said the woman in an aggressive tone, pointing towards her sticker. ‘I’m not even worthy of a name, it seems. Typical.’
‘I’m Number 37,’ replied Nelson.
‘Lucky you.’
‘Actually, Number 16 is one of my favourite numbers. It’s a perfect square.’
‘A what?’
‘You know, two times two is four. Four times four is sixteen. You can’t do anything with thirty-seven. It’s a prime. I’ve always felt a little uncomfortable with primes.’
The woman snorted and shook her head. ‘Nerd,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said you’re a nerd.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘I bet you keep lists, don’t you? To-do lists, and so on.’
‘I do, as it happens,’ admitted Nelson. ‘They can be very helpful.’
The woman laughed and placed her hands on her lap, each one positioned perfectly on a different knee. ‘Christ, how has it come to this?’ she muttered to no one in particular.
‘It’s been quite fine out for this time of year, hasn’t it?’ asked Nelson.
‘My father was a maths teacher,’ she said, ignoring his question. ‘He was a nerd too. And a prick.’
‘Really?’ he replied. A silence fell. ‘I had a maths teacher when I was in school,’ he added eventually. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t want to be the one who had to clean it.’
He frowned. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘I said I wouldn’t want to be the one who had to clean it,’ she repeated. ‘The world, I mean.’
‘Why would you clean the world? How could someone do that?’
‘No, it’s a … it’s a joke. When someone says … actually, you know what, forget it, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Are you a cleaner?’ asked Nelson. ‘It’s fine if you are.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad I have your approval. Thank Christ that a man is telling me that it’s okay to be a cleaner.’
‘So you are, then?’
‘No, I’m a paediatrician.’
‘I don’t know how anyone does that job,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Don’t you find them kind of disgusting? And smelly?’
‘Children?’