Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla

      I pack up what I need to read and some books to sell. I walk outside. It’s freezing. I am braving the cold so there’s more chance people can see my new ink, so no need to layer up. But it’s freezing. I crave hoodie. I crave thermals. I crave warmth.

      I walk down the high street, against the contraflow of returning commuters, victorious in their ability to survive another day at work. I wonder if they’ve achieved the same amount of work as me, except with shielded screens and covert clicking back onto spreadsheets: watched YouTube videos, snacked, clicked through every single social network available; replied to emails as promptly as possible to indicate work efficiency and manage a total concentrated work effort of 55 minutes or so. We all spend our working days looking forward to our next meal.

      My phone rings. It’s Rach’s number. I ignore it. She calls again. I let it ring in my pocket. Undeterred, she calls me again. This time, my impulses can’t let a ringing phone go unanswered. Must connect. I answer.

      ‘Can’t you speak to me now?’ She sounds pissed off for being ignored. The first time I hear her voice in 6 months and she sounds angry with me. Nothing has changed.

      ‘No, I’m out. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I say.

      ‘Out, well, that’s good at least.’

      ‘Glad you approve.’

      ‘No, I just think that’s a really good thing, you really needed to …’

      ‘Is that why you called, Rach? To have a go?’

      ‘No,’ she says. ‘I was just thinking about you. I wanted to check you’re okay. I worry about you. And nobody’s seen you. I worry about you being on your own.’

      ‘Well, I’m not on my own.’

      ‘Oh. Good. Who …’

      ‘Look. I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘I don’t need your worry. I’m a fully functioning adult.’ I hang up the phone.

      I have an @-reply on Twitter. It’s from Hayley. It says: ‘See you in a bit. I’m running late. Looking forward to it whisky buddy.’

      I tweet her back: ‘Pre-pub-dutch courage. Join me if you can?’