Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla

Associations have some weird cultural capital now.’

      ‘Innit,’ I said, to purposely undercut him.

      ‘Did you get a friend request from Rach?’ I nodded. ‘You know she has a new boyfriend?’

      ‘You’re Facebook friends with Rach?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Dunno why you don’t go out anymore.’

      ‘She dumped me. She said because I was a self-obsessed depressive.’

      ‘She does have a joie de vivre you don’t really do …’ he said, downing the rest of his pint and signalling for another 2.

      ‘I’m going through a lot of stuff, man.’

      ‘No need to act like a bore about it.’

      ‘Anyway, what’s your problem with Twitter?’

      ‘I don’t “do” Twitter. It’s all pictures of sandwiches and misspelled signs, no?’

      ‘Only for those who don’t use it properly.’

      ‘That’s what your feed is full of … Anyways, I hate how we’re all diminishing circles of actual friendship.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘All your followers and all your Facebook friends know your every movement. Your real friends know what you’re like. Where’s someone who knows both?’

      ‘That used to be Rach. But then she hated it when I was always online.’

      ‘Look at her now. She can’t get enough of the stuff.’

      ‘She’s a social animal,’ I mumbled. ‘Just another content queen.’

      When I got home, I Googled Mitch to verify how off-radar he was. It didn’t take many search results to discover Mitch had a secret blog that no one knew about, called ‘The Weird Shit People Say to Me’. Of the entries, 3 could be attributed to me. I don’t mind.

      ‘I’m really excited about this trip,’ Aziz tells me as we’re sitting in his room. ‘I packed your camera, for the posterity.’

      ‘It is effectively yours. You use it all the time.’

      ‘How else can I document my lifestyle? No one would believe me otherwise.’

      ‘Just keep it,’ I said of the unwanted present Dad bought me Duty Free when he returned from a singles holiday to Prague last year.

      ‘Yeah, you can’t frame a decent shot.’

      ‘Decent framed pictures do rule the world.’

      ‘If only I could Instagram some of those sexcapades. The world isn’t ready.’

      Aziz has packed enough underwear for a week, but only 3 t-shirts, because they’re his coolest. He bought a black vest that resembles the one Teddy Baker’s wearing in his photograph. He and I debate the word wife-beater. He ends it by telling me to man up, which irks me into a sulk. I then ask whereabouts in New York Teddy Baker lives.

      ‘Well, it says Brooklyn on his account,’ Aziz says, lifting his suitcase up and down like he’s weight training with it.

      ‘Wait, you didn’t message him?’

      ‘Nah, man, that’s part of the surprise.’

      ‘You’re going to just turn up? He’ll think you’re weird.’

      ‘Part of the challenge is getting through the awkwardness and getting to be best friends,’ Aziz says, downing his tea.

      ‘How do you know how to find him? You know New York’s pretty massive, right?’

      ‘Dude, give me some motherfrickin’ credit. I Googled him. I found his Facebook, his Twitter, his Foursquare and his Linkedin. I know where he works right now. I can see where he checks in on Foursquare or just follow his Twitter. Mate, I’ll find the guy. All I have to do is turn my wi-fi on.’

      ‘And your data roaming off. I ain’t helping you with another mobile phone bill.’

      ‘That was different. That was phone chat lines.’

      ‘Yeah, I’m not helping you pay another mobile phone bill because you’re too much of a dick to use your phone wisely.’

      ‘Fine, anyway, stop making this awkward for me. I was excited till I spoke to you. You know, Kit, you’re such a hangover depressive. You just gotta smiley face up. Smiley face up.’

      Aziz points at me. I force a smile.

      ‘Yeah. Sorry, man.’

      ‘What’s your 5-point plan for your new tattoo? It’s new tattoo day. Today your life will change, just a little bit. And it’ll be fucking awesome.’

      ‘I dunno, get some breakfast, do some writing. I got a reading later. Whatever.’

      ‘Okay, so have you made a list of fit and female acquaintances you can impress with your tattoo? Have you made a list of places people might approach you and say, wow, that looks cool. Is that Hayley going to the reading?’ Aziz raises his eyebrows at me, waving air glasses up and down.

      ‘It’s not just for pulling girls. Is it?’ I say. ‘And yes she is.’

      ‘And now you’re finally single.’

      I panic. I show him my arm. ‘Should it be so red?’

      I show Aziz my arm. There are some inflamed red rings around the tattoo. He dismisses it. ‘Just put some moisturiser on it. It’ll be fine.’

      Sick Charlie has given me nappy rash cream to quell the burn so I put that on. I’ve expressly been told that moisturiser isn’t great and petroleum jelly is worse. Aloe vera or baby rash cream is best for soothing 2 hours of skin rubbing. It burns a little. Just like an inflammation. It’s fine.

      We hear a car horn beep twice outside, signalling the arrival of Aziz’s cab I called for him. I don’t want him to go. Last night was the first night I’ve not hung out with him in 6 months. Who’s going to keep me entertained? He wants to go. I don’t want him to go. I could ask him to stay. He probably won’t stay. He’s doing this for my good. Stop distracting me. Give me time to write. He clutches me and gives me a long slow cuddle. We have this thing where you hug and the first one to feel awkward or break the cuddle for the sake of practicality loses. Currently I’m losing 172–4 to Aziz. But I hold on because he’s my brother and I feel protective over him and he’s an impulsive funny man and he’s off to do something slightly stupid but I respect his desire to see things through.

      And hell, at least he doesn’t sit there and over-analyse for an inordinate amount of time. Except he’s still holding on and I’m worried the cab will leave without him and we’ll have to wait for another one and he’ll miss his flight and it’ll be because I didn’t let go in time. I pull away.

      ‘You better get your cab, dude.’

      Aziz smiles, crosses over to the chalkboard next to our fridge and changes 172 to 173. Damnit. I’ve been hustled.

      ‘See you man,’ he says.

      ‘Please take care and don’t do anything stupid with a bunch of strangers you found off the internet,’ I say, grimacing.

      ‘Read my blog,’ he says, throwing his hands out and waving them jazzily at me. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

      ‘Come back with both your kidneys.’

      ‘Promote my progress on Twitter.’

      The cab beeps again.

      ‘Keep your passport in your pocket at all times.’

      ‘Blog comments are always welcome too.’

      ‘Just